


Her sweet kiss

by SaintSaens



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, Betrayal, Dark Past, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jaskier is a spy, Jaskier is feral, Jaskier | Dandelion Being an Idiot, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kaer Morhen, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison, Spy Jaskier, Stream of Consciousness, That's it, and he shovells his own shit, because we all need that every once in a while, did you say emotionsssssssss?, let's have some comfort now, loosely book based
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22404352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintSaens/pseuds/SaintSaens
Summary: It's a war. And what's a human being, in the grand scheme of things?[Previous summary :The countess de Stael lurks in the dark, and Jaskier can't really go far.Or : The countess de Stael is a spy master for the best of price. And Jaskier..well, he does what he can to survive.And who cares, Yennefer is always there, to pick up the pieces left. ]
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Triss Merigold, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 37
Kudos: 117





	1. Garroter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm useless at this.  
> I'm reading the books and it's implied that somehow somewhat, Jaskier is a spy (did I read it right??). The books are amazing but I craved a bit more from that knowledge... and I had to write it down. 
> 
> So here you go. Jaskier!whump and him being a massive idiot.  
> Obviously, Yennefer will be calling the shots.
> 
> (ps : the Countess de Stael is inspired by Milady de Winter from The Musketeers (BBC) (if you want a picture in your mind of that special brand of cookie). We don't see her much here, but just so it's clear, she's sort of this Yennefer-likeminded character, she is a goddess and I do love her I swear.)

" "How are you doing?" I hear you ask. Well, the Countess de Stael, my muse and beauty of this world, has left me." 

_The curl of round lips, the glittering of dark curls, a sharp eye and a laugh. I'll see you soon, bardling._

Talk and talk and never stop, it's easier to fill in the void with empty chatter then to let it linger on bitter meanings. Divert attention, dramatize the uneventful.

She has left you again, the countess, but you're used to it. She always leaves you. She has so much to do. She's the reason you're still part of this world, breathing. A thread in her net. Useful. It's bittersweet. She's why you're here, standing back while Geralt, unaware, trudges around murky waters. Why you're filling his ears with nonsense, trying to quiet the suspicion of your presence to his witcher' senses and the guilt is an ice-cold poison in your veins, and yet. 

Yet. You can't help but feel relief, because there's Geralt again.And you find your lungs working, as they haven't in months, and the spark of happiness is sharp but it takes. It takes and you can't smoother it, no matter how hard you want to. It's dangerous, your attachment to Geralt, the countess. But the spark is there again. 

You're only human, so you welcome it.

\- - - - 

"Did you sing to her before she left?" 

"I did actually and she..."

You stop that sentence, halting in the explanations. 

You can't go down that road, no matter how honest you want to be, how much it burns your tongue to keep it all in, when you just want to tell him, be truthful, completely, for once. Be free of that weight. Of her presence, hovering in your steps. You're a cog in the wheels of her schemes. And Geralt, unaware, is the force that sends you reeling in that machinery.

He is also, somehow, the reason you're still alive.  
He would deserve it. 

Because, yes, you sing to her, every goddamn time she comes to you, no matter how hard you try, you sing to her. You've become more apt with experience, learning from her too. She's a great singer. She's a better spy too. Omitting a detail here, and there, turning a point inside out and on its head. Masquerading knowledge under cloths of trinket words.

And yet you sing to her.

But then again, she was always a master at your cords. And you're only human. 

\- - - -

So yes, you sing to her, and you can't go down that road. You'll be damned to do so now, under that sun, so close to the only sincere relation you've had in a while. Geralt is desperate. You're his friend, or at least, you like to think so. You don't want to tore to shreds those moments just yet. You think you have time. You can claim a bit more of those instants, selfish as it is. You know, deep down, you're just putting more golden arches to your forged cage. But does it really matter, at this point? 

You're only human. 

And so you spin the lead Geralt has handed to you, and you become the man you were always meant to be, an artist, a lover, a spirited hedonist of life and goods. The man he believes you to be, another inconsequential soul in his reality.

So you halt in your explanation and you charge with all your might. You're good at it, since you've always wanted that life. And you don't really realize how handy you've become at lying to yourself just yet. 

"Why ? What are you implying?"

Geralt is an easy man to fool, once you've come close enough. Once he's realized you're not a physical threat to his actual life, or to the life of those he helps. And so you spin, and spin your tale, and your exasperated complaints. And he sings to you too, in those moments, falling right where you want him to, with his patience thin and your needling piercing perfectly under his skin. 

"Ohhh we are so having this conversation!" You start.

You fall so easily for your own theatrics, it's a bit sad at this point. You fool your own heart, running to this thin field of ease and friendship and life. And you don't see the danger growing in your hands, blinded by the intense feeling of rightness that's filling up your heart to the brim. 

The djinn gets to you. When you cough the blood, you wonder hysterically if it's not a sign for what's to come, of what you hold turning back to bite you. If your first desperate cry is for Geralt, you want to believe it's because you're just that good of an actor, and you never let your act falter until it's supposed to be over. 

But you're human. And you know, deep down, the truth about that too. 

\- - - -

You're left alone, for a while after that whole disaster. 

The countess doesn't come by. You don't reach for her either, although you should, probably. But Geralt is there. That could be a point in your favor. 

Still. For a time, you wonder.  
The Djinn was a cluster-fuck, she would have heard of it. She knows about the mages running wild, she dabbles in their mist, and that Yennefer is too much like her to have escaped her notice. Maybe she recruited her too. You snort at that, and Geralt cocks his head at you. 

What on heart could she give that woman? You used to think the countess omnipotent, but no such things exist, and the powerful witcher you've been traveling with has shown you more than enough rifts in his armor for that. There is nothing the countess could give Yennefer. And the countess isn't here either. You want to breathe a sigh at that because it could reveal itself to be as much of a blessing as a curse. But for now, it's relief that courses through your veins. 

So you wait. You follow Geralt around, pretend and sometimes even just live your best life. You sing, really sing these times. And you create and the merriement with which people listen to you, it doesn't help, and you feel yourself slowly sinking into that lie you've carefully crafted. But you're only human too, and so you wait in the dark, silence constraining your whims, and wait. You're alert to the clatter of hooves on the street, to the ruffling of leaves in the trees. 

But there's nothing coming, and you dare to breathe. 

Maybe that's all she was waiting for, really. 

\- - - -

It's years later, that you see her again.  
You're not much to see by then, you think.  
(and if she laughs at the sight of you, well, no one is to know) 

The guards of Nilfgaard have caught up with you. They know about the witcher, and how you're the one singing his praises. They know you're hers, too. 

That's a sting that hurts the most in all their doings. Because you wanted to think you had been more than that, at that point. That you had made a name for yourself, that you had finally become something you were proud of, out of her circles. 

But you're only human, then again. And in those wars, what's a bit of flesh. 

\- - - 

Before you had inadvertently met Geralt, you had been a fast burning wreck. 

She had watched from afar, and she had still counted you as part of her pawns, although unimportant. You had thrived in that loosely held chain, you had wanted to show her just how far you could go, how far you could destroy what was hers. Carelessness, you had it in your blood. Out of spite, for her and the world that had made you what you were, you had talked too much, to the wrong persons, you had made love to their wives and daughters and sons, even themselves sometimes, and wasn't that the best thrill of your entire existence. She had just looked at you, shaking her head. Because you were reckless, and too much to handle, and not worth the trouble, but unfortunately for you, you still found something, every time, for her to quiet down. For her not to end your life just yet. Out of spite. You had good eyes, she always praised that. 

You weren't worth the trouble, but the trouble you brought she didn't mind, although you tried your best.

And she still kept in her clutch that chain, no matter how far you went. 

And so, you had gone on being that fast burning wreck.  
Because you were only human then. 

\- - - - 

"Jaskier, my dear" she whispers in your ears, a hand caressing softly your damp hair "where are they?"

You want to hold it all in, but you see water trickling down your arm, and you choke on a sob, and between the pain and the tiredness and the loneliness, you're only human. 

"Shhh, it's alright. Jaskier, Jaskier, just tell me where they are" Her fingers are running up your spine, settling on your neck. 

You're only human. And she always knew how to make you sing. 

\- - - 

After you met Geralt, you had kept up those bad habits, those wrecked practices. They had become somehow a part of you. You didn't mind, it was freeing. You still talked too much, and you still slept around, although you didn't try anymore to look for secrets and shames in your lovers' lives. 

But the first time you didn't pry, consciously and willingly, Geralt assumed you had tried another weird substance that the youngsters are found of. Your hands were shaking afterwards, and your heartbeat wouldn't just slow the fuck down as you left the town and the Baron's mistresses behind. You spent the day, walking behind Geralt, silent and tortured by the rising anxiety that came with not having done what you were supposed to do. That night, he gave you a cup of tea, and the shaking subsided when you slowly realized that there would be no one asking for an account. 

Not even him. 

You wanted to laugh then, at how deep the countess had dug her claws in your very being without you noticing. 

You wonder now, back in her grip, what would be left of you without those claws to hold you together. 

\- - -

She doesn't take you with her when she leaves for Kaer Morhen, or wherever she is expected to. 

You've sang again for her.  
That's all she needed. 

\- - - -

At some point, you think you've lost track of time. Your ears have played tricks on you more than enough. Your eyes have betrayed you too. 

You're pretty sure you died. 

You've pinched and hurt yourself too many times now to be sure. 

Which is why, when the door to your cell is blasted open, you barely blink. The light is harsh, and you wait for something to happen. For someone to end it all. 

You half expect to see the countess again, and wouldn't that be a treat if she were furious with you, because why else would she come back. You think you see her, but the dress and the hair is all wrong. The fury is there alright, radiant and spiked. You think you crook a smile. She takes a step, there is a hiss and the glint of a blade in her bloody hands. So you were right. There will be someone to end it all. 

The fact that it's her, it only seems just. She made you what you were, might as well destroy it too. You don't feel resentment, you just feel grateful. You know there should be hurt and anger and unfairness screaming out of your lungs, but you're just human. You're tired, and you don't have enough strength left to battle for your pride. 

"I knew it" she mutters darkly, and that voice is wrong, you're sure of it, but your brain doesn't care.

She crouches in front of you, and that's when your eyes catch the blackness of her hair and the absence of her infamous curls. You tick. You look at her eyes, and their bright color rakes at your mind. She had black eyes, black all-consuming eyes. You don't know what to make of that crystal-clear lens, shining in the dark, so you just blink. 

"You little shit, I knew it" she keeps on muttering. 

And her hands seem to falter at what to do next, the blade held uncertainly by her side as she looks at you. You have never known her to be indecisive, so you take your chance.

You cock your head, and because you're only human, and an idiot at that, you cough out "what? I don't get a kiss?" 

She is left stock still. You expected a dagger to the guts for even just implying it, implying she would share something so personal and intimate with someone like you. You always made fun of her for her puritanism. Maybe she's become too soft with age. But she only blinks at you and lets out a heavy breath. 

You don't like the tone she has next, almost wet and broken. 

"I don't think you would welcome any of my sweet kisses, bardling" she croaks out. 

And that's when you close your eyes. Because there's something wrong, in her tone, and her voice, and her posture. You know your brain to be your own enemy in those days, but you trusted it enough not to make such glaring unrealistic personas. You shake your head and it's in the breath of clothes ruffling and a slash by your wrists that you open your eyes again, heart in your throat. 

You look down and you feel weightless. The chains aren't there anymore. She is watching you, eyes deadly and hands glowing. You don't know what to make of that. 

You just look at her and she looks back. 

"We've got a few things to talk about, bardling" she says in the light of her own flames. "But first, you need to sleep"

You're just human.  
And you were never good at just doing what you're told.  
That's why you don't just sleep, but you fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ! I hope you enjoyed it or that you at least had a good time going through this piece of work.


	2. Jury : part I

_If life could take you off my hands_

Wishful thinking.  
But you're only human. And you can't help it, the flare of maybes that come rushing in.  
You would welcome it. 

If only. 

\- - - 

There are bribes of speech that you hear, nothing registers fully into the fog of your brain but you can still hear it. 

"He knew -" 

" - the only one - outside" 

"Meaning - Geralt?"

"- the spy?" 

You can't bear it. So you fall back down. 

\- - - -

When you blink your eyes open, you see rays of sunshine for the first time in a long while. It's strange, the warmth. It prickles at your skin and you don't like the way it makes you feel. Out. In the open. 

Free. 

There is movement near you, but you can't really care. You hide under the blanket as best as you can, and turn your back to the sun. If it feels like it's trickling its light down your neck, and if you shiver, you think it could have been worse. 

You could have never felt it at all again. 

Ah. If only, right.

\- - - 

You don't think you could ever forget, how you met.  
Her.  
The countess. 

You were young, and drunk, and earnest.  
You thought you had the world on your shoulders, and you only wanted some quiet. 

You think back, about those times, and it's true, maybe then, it felt that bad. 

You wonder how you can stand now. 

\- - -

You come to with the feeling of a wet-down cloth pressing on your neck. And it's instincts, taking over, because you feel water rushing to your ears and fear coursing through your veins, and you spring up, coiled and tensed, tangled in sheets that are strange. 

You don't wonder, you've stopped after a while, wondering where you were and why. The dark room. The bath. The cave. Her hands. Her eyes. All different places, different souvenirs. Maybe all the same. But it's too painful, to even wonder. Just another reminder. It's been a long time now. And you're not much left of a human. It's been a long time, and no one ever wondered why. Should you start now?

You come to, expecting a sweet voice and light fingers, maybe more water.

When you finally look up, though, it's not your monster. 

It's Geralt' sorceress.

"Back to the land of the living then" she says.

You watch her, unsure and wrong-footed. You can't remember how you used to act around her. You're not sure if she was ever in, on who you were, if she had dabbled into your mind while you were out, either back with the Djinny djinn djinn or now. 

It leaves a poor taste in your mouth. So you don't reply. 

She quirks an eyebrow. 

"Jaskier" she says.

You don't move, still holding yourself pressed against the head of the bed you were lying on. You notice that the clothes on your back aren't the ones you had back then and there. You wonder what happened to them. You wonder who took them. What they saw. What they know. Those things, that scratch at the brim of your brain, those things you hear, whispered in your sleep. 

"Jaskier"

The voice is demanding, and it leaves you rattled. Your muscles tense but your mind is fixated on her name. You think maybe you should acknowledge her, even if you're scared. It's only proper, and you might be half out of it, but you've still got manners. 

"Yennefer" 

It's a croak, barely a fully formed word at that. But it's enough. You're breathless and she looks fine. 

"How are you feeling?" 

You wonder again. You want to say you're tired, but your brain, it never holds. And it goes, and goes and goes. It's Yennefer. This room. It's not the same. It doesn't feel right, but you're too tired to make anything out. You wonder. If it could be the countess again. A new trick to her sleeves, a new pawn in her palms. 

You can't let that thought go on. You think Yennefer. You think Geralt. You think safe. But there is the room again. And the whispers. And the shame. You'll tread carefully. You're used to it. You can do it. (And isn't that just wishful thinking)

The sorceress is still looking at you. You realize she is waiting for you. You wonder how long ago she learned patience. You bring your mind back on track, and although it hurts and it takes time, you remember the question she just asked. About feeling. 

You also remember, distantly, what the consequences were, back there, for lying. Would she use the same methods? Would she show her cards like that, if you were to lie? 

"Alive" you finally say. You look down at yourself again and wonder. You feel alive, that's true enough. You don't know if you're much human now. But, at least, you are, something or other, breathing. 

So it's not a lie. Not completely. 

"Good." she declares, and although she just pushes her locks back from her face, you feel her intentions, in her elegant dress and manners. 

You don't like the helplessness that brings up. Because you know what someone like her can do, with a goal in mind and very little time to spare. What they can do, without the violence of blades, without even magic to help. You've sang enough time to know that dance. 

You watch her, and her manners, her eyes and her dress, it makes it harder for you to swallow then. 

Because that, that's always worse than anything else, and all the violence in the world couldn't equate. 

The manipulation, the betrayal. It's what you hate. 

Because, in the end, when those people leave, it always feels like it's on you, if they succeeded. 

\- - -

You remember the first time you met. The countess.  
How she lead you on and on, from the pub, to a room. To her place. 

How you were, dizzy from eagerness and wine and sadness, with finally someone to tell.  
And she was such a great listener.  
It breaks your heart now, when you think of yourself then. How she choked in her web the last hope you had shared. 

\- - - 

"What happened?" 

You shake your head. You're left bereft. 

You just look at the sorceress. 

It's stupid, but you feel unqualified to say anything. And trapped, too. There are so much meanings between those simple words. So much that could be brushed aside or pulled out. And no matter how far you go and how much you sleep, you remember the last time you said something. How it was slowly teased out of you by expert hands, how all of it unraveled without your intent in front of the piercing, all-knowing eyes of the Countess. 

And you can't help, you wonder. What if it's her again? 

"Jaskier" Yennefer sighs before seating in front of you. 

You don't move. 

"Here is what's going on right now : Cintra has fallen. Geralt and his Child Surprise are tracked down by Nilfgaard. And a few days ago, Kaer Morhen was attacked by their army."

You swallow. She has dark eyes, you think. Very dark eyes indeed. 

"Now, luckily enough" she goes on, dissecting your reactions with her gaze "Geralt wasn't there." 

You wait. You want to breathe a sigh but you wait. Because until the end, until she's left, you can't be sure what she will take. Out of you, out of your brain. So you wait.  
And you're not much human, but you're done with betrayal. 

She squints her eyes before starting again "But I was." 

You cock your head. Because if that's supposed to help the mess in your brain, well, it doesn't. And you're left to wonder, what's the point. Of all this. 

She mimics you.

"I met someone, there. A very talkative man. Who said something about a woman, and her bard. A bard who would have told them where the fortress was." 

You close your eyes. Now you're getting somewhere. A little resentment.That's more like her.  
You're used to it. 

"Now" Yennefer goes on "there aren't that many bards who know where the witcher's place is, precisely." 

Ah. There is the accusation. 

"At first, I thought you were still angry at Geralt, and honestly, Jaskier, I would understand. He is an ass." she laughs, although it's slightly watered down. Unfulfilled. You wonder, if she's worried. "But" she takes a grave tone and stands straighter "for you to put in danger a child. Others. Now, that doesn't really seem like you." 

And she looks at you.

"I thought I should find that woman, I was told she's a good gatherer of information. That was the next logical step. To get to the source. But then, I remember that I actually cured you, once, a while back. Remember that too? You did bleed quite a lot. And I had always thought that if I needed to find Geralt again, I could always go through you to do so." she smiles "Apparently, I wasn't the only one thinking that, but that's not the point for now." 

You think you've stop breathing. 

"So, I tracked you down instead. It's amazing what blood can tell you." 

That sends your mind reeling but you have to wait, you have to wait and listen.

"I didn't really expect to find you in a cell, though.So, I will repeat my question again, Jaskier. What happened? And where are Geralt and his child? Please, don't think about lying. I will know, and you won't like the consequences." The sorceress finishes.

You watch her, and you think, about her and Geralt.Their last fight, you were there. _Disregard for other's freedom has become quite your trademark_ . That's what she had said. She wanted freedom. And yet. Geralt. Geralt was still there, roaming, away. You wonder and your mind, conjures up the thought. And although she had said it, that he had lost her already. You can't wait but think. What if. 

So you grit your teeth.  
She will have to pull it out of you if that bitch wants anything.

\- - - 

She didn't have to do much the first time you spoke to her, the countess, maybe that's why you were so intent on keeping it all in, after, and still. 

You were so desperate for a good ear, a shoulder, when you were then young and definitely stupider.

She sat there and listened, and when you were done, aching and destroyed, she only smiled. She already had you in her grasp, a good lordling for her biding, a good bird to hear singing. 

So you grit your teeth. 

\- - - 

She leaves you alone, Yennefer that is. She's been patient, for a while. She hasn't done anything either. Just the judgmental stare. But nothing else.

It doesn't help.

She leaves you alone and you can hear the voices echoing in the corridor. 

"He didn't -" 

"Bastard! That's what he-"

"There's something not..."

"We need to know! We..." 

You close your eyes. Everything you hear, she wants you to hear. Everything they say, they want you to know. It's not the first round you've had. You sure as hell though had hoped it to be your last. 

\- - - 

She didn't have to look far, the countess, when you were done speaking that first night. She petted your hair, and you can never forget the coldness of her fingers, that's what kept you awake, as she retold the tale you had just given her, turning it around and spinning it on its head. 

For you to bear the crushing guilt and shame.  
To be blamed for the blood on your hands.  
For the death of your friend. 

You remember, gasping in the fold of her dress as she made a tale so grand and gross and great, that your truth, your pain and your longing, your reality, could never compare. 

\- - -

That's how you fell into her web, her hands, her nest.  
You can't say you've ever climbed out again. 

\- - -

Yennefer comes and goes.  
You spend most of your day sleeping.  
You're breathing, still. You don't know what to make of it.  
You wonder...

But you keep on sleeping. 

\- - - 

You think once bitten, twice shy, under her dark eyes. 

You think about Geralt. About the past. 

You remember, how you never wanted your world to become monstrous again under _her_ nails. How you wanted to keep it to yourself.Because you finally had found something again to protect, and to care. 

And that made the grandest tales. 

Because you also know what they say about respect (and history. How it always falls short. How it's always found wanting). 

And there never was a better soul to sing these praises but yourself. You've always taken good care of your friends' tales.

\- - -

They seem to get bored of your antics. 

They speak about it beneath your room. The men, they seem to rage. You expect some sharp reprimands, it is Yennefer after all, but nothing comes. 

It's never completely done.

\- - - -

One man comes into the room at some point, smelling of blood and earth, he looks infuriated even before he sees you. Once he does though, there's the rage. 

Hatred, violence. Blood. That's something you were waiting for.

You've sang enough, you guess it is time to scream it all out now . 

\- - - 

It ends quickly though, you're disappointed. 

There are raised voices, a blast of air in the room, and you find your breath again. 

You can't feel your throat. 

He had heavy hands. 

You cough and cough and cough and there is blood on your cupped palms when you finally look at them. 

Yennefer is dragging the man out by the neck, cursing him with all her might, and Triss, you know her, you've met her with Geralt, Triss Merigold, she just stands uncertainly next to you. 

In your mind, you remember, the sharp focus you had on the man's necklace. While he choked you to death and beyond, how it glinted and faded, a wolf, the last haunting show for your eyes alone.

You didn't scream as you wanted, but you smirk nonetheless. 

Because you're sure you won't sing again for a little while. And, by you, that's alright. Even for this sad excuse of a witcher, and his sorceresses.

Triss looks about, she seems disturbed by your smile. 

\- - - 

The countess never was bothered.  
By pain and blood. She didn't like the stench, and the stain on her robes. But she didn't really care more. 

She laughed, and mocked, when you would turn pale. She jeered, how pathetic a murderer you would make for her. 

But you were lucky, you could sing.  
It didn't prevent everything, but most of it. 

It spared your wits.  
If your hands came out dirty sometimes, then so be it. 

\- - -

You listen, when they speak in the night. You listen and you laugh. 

"He's a fucking bard" the man who had you pinned down rages out " he doesn't know shit about these things. War. Politics. Just because he's Geralt's pet, or was, and the guy had enough sense after a while to leave him behind, doesn't make it right for him to go and share his knowledge with whomever just asks!" 

"It doesn't feel right." Triss replies. 

"Doesn't matter! He mouthed off. Almost got us killed. He should be dead. Would be a blessing." 

Yennefer's voice is cutting, and you almost wish it could be her truly. Her reality, it feels like it could be yours, if she would share it. "You're blind, Lambert. You're naive and blind. It's a wonder how any of the witchers are still alive." 

"You little-" 

"I would strongly advise on not fighting against the sorceress to whom you owe your life, Lambert" another man cuts in. "There's something we are missing. Do you know what he said to them?"

There is silence. No wonder, you have yet to form a word. 

"It doesn't matter!" Lambert snarls. " He fucking talked. To our enemies. That's all there is to know! He should be dead. Fucking coward."

"I think" Yennefer starts."we should proceed with caution. He talked. That's the only certainty we have. He knew a lot, too. That means Geralt and Ciri are at risk, until they can reach us. At the same time..." 

"- we need to kill him, he is a liability."

There's the sound of slapping. Then silence again. 

"Don't. Speak of things you don't know." Triss threatens.

"He betrayed the trust of Geralt, by opening his mouth. He was barely roughened up when we arrived. I'm sure he screamed with all his might when they threatened to cut his hair or something, the prick. Don't try to tell me they worked on him. He talked because he could. Because it would mean his life was saved, even if it involved the death of others. That coward, never had blood on his dainty little hands, and was scared to see his own. That's all there is to know!"

You look at your hands, and there it is, your sad smile again. You hear them anger and curse beneath your bed and you look at your hands, and you blink the blood and the dagger that started all this madness, that made you who you are, lead you to this place, to her side, the Countess's. 

It's been years, but it's still clear as day, the running and limpid blood, down your hands, down your friend, and her clear eyes, dead. 

The man is right, you've sang before.  
The Countess, Nilfgaard, all of them, they thirsted for something, they could have drown you in it. 

But you've got enough pride to smirk, because, sure, you sang. What they wanted to hear.  
You couldn't keep it all in. 

But you never said everything. 

That's the beauty, about singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, thank you a lot for the comments on the first chapter, and all the kudos that came up!  
> I didn't think it would be quite so stressful to know that there are people out there who liked it, and wanted to read more of this (whatever it is). 
> 
> Now, apologies for having taken a good two weeks or so to publish the second chapter. It was a long process. The text is almost entirely written out now, but as always, I like to tinker until it's bled dry. But I know there is only so far I can go with a squeaky cart, so here I leave you the second chapter ! Jury Part I (because it was getting to big and I needed to cut it in half...). 
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy it, and know that I'll appreciate every comment you leave, as inconsequential as they may seem to you <3


	3. Jury : part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it goes. Second part of Jury.   
> It's been a tad difficult to go around, but I'm really happy I managed to pull it out. 
> 
> Next chapter : Geralt will be there ! (Oh finally! The Executioner !!)

You start wondering how long you've got left. 

You hear the men whisper their what ifs, and their silences. 

\- - -

Later that night, Yennefer comes by your side. 

You're not sleeping, not really, but your eyes are closed because there's nothing left for you to see. In this room or another, it's always very much the same. It's always four walls. And you in between them. 

She's there. She's watching. She didn't make a sound in coming. You haven't got an ounce of magic, but you guess that after so long spent around _them_ , you've developed a sense for it. 

And so she is standing, silent and so impressive, you can feel it. In the dark, and the cold, she's almost awe-inspiring.   
You, you're just exposed, under her chaos. 

While it waits, devious and alert.   
It's at your fingertips, boiling thunder. 

"You're an enigma, bardling" she whispers "Some want you dead, here. Some want you out of it at all." 

She sighs. 

"Some have too much heart, still." 

You don't move, curled on your side, but you do open your eyes. 

You wonder if she's speaking for herself or Triss when she says that.

You understand the witchers. Whatever their angle, for Nilfgaard or... the rest, you think you understand them. They are hell-bent. Whether it is because you won't say a word or because you already said too much, it's not really the crux of the matter. They are hell-bent, either way. 

It's in their core. To deal in blood. 

But the sorceresses. Standing with Nilfgaard, they should have eaten you up, just waltz in your mind and taken everything out. If they weren't, they wouldn't even have bothered. You know that. 

You're just flesh, almost dead (although not there yet).   
So why were you still alive?

\- - - 

"Do you think, my dear" the countess had whispered in your ear "that someone cares, truly?" 

That had been right before she had drawn you in. 

\- - -

You think, under her gaze. Even if you don't talk anymore, you mind is still ill-fitted for peace. You think, she knows. She can see it on your face. 

And what comes out of it, after so many days here, is that the Nilgaard path seems weak.

You're useless, and they haven't done a thing. They should have speared your heart already, in the very least. 

So you keep on thinking.   
If they weren't with Nilfgaard, they would be against it. 

You might be bad at the overall politics of it, but you can put two and two together. Whoever is against Nilfgaard is against their goals. Whoever is against their goals is against Cirilla falling into their hands. Whoever is against Cirilla falling into their hands, is ultimately on Geralt' side. 

Unless something came up, your mind murmurs, and it was decided he should be gone. 

That could still happen. 

But it sill doesn't explain why you are still alive. 

So you watch Yennefer. And your mind keeps on spinning. 

Her, she used to care about Geralt, or as much as she had allowed herself to. He is an ass, but they had something, and maybe they still do. No matter how bad it is, they were connected. And these things, they tend to stay. 

You see her eyes, and the pain she's been through, and the determination that keeps her complete and standing here. You've always been good at seeing inside people too. 

Nilfgaard's mentality wasn't one to lose space over sentiment.   
If she had been with them, you would have been long gone by then.   
The other side, it's murky, and everyone is giving a piece of their ideas on how to go on about things. 

They want to stop Nilfgaard, and find again their rules and ways. Because Nilfgaard is unfair, and it's unrepentant. It's something completely different.

But them, the witchers and the sorceresses, they cling to shreds of the past society. Honor and good deeds, as if it ever meant anything. Respect and justice. The good and square boxes. 

Because under Nilfgaard they would be nothing. 

And so you think. 

Maybe that's why.

There's Nilfgaard, and then there is Justice. And it's justice, they're looking for. 

The sorceresses have more sense than all. They lead on the witchers, wayward weaklings, and speak of laws and rules. Those they know and choose. They tell of the deeds, and sing the words that make those thirsty men stand up and fight. They know them by heart, betrayal and lies. They can sing them, almost as well as any bard.

You think that maybe, if they have too much heart, it's not for you, but for him. 

They wouldn't kill in his name. 

But they would let him do it. 

\- - - 

"In a court of your peers" the countess had laughed, jarring your senses "who would believe it?" 

That was when you still had enough heart to protest it.   
Her. 

When you still believed, even just a bit, in that wretched Justice.

She quickly shut down those wishes. 

\- - -

Yennefer stands by your bed, looking down at you. The few rays of light, from the moon, are painting a distorted vision to you. It startles you. 

"I" she whispers "I want to know why you didn't tell your mistress about the main entrance to Kaer Morhen."

She sniffs and smiles, a wicked thing in the crude moonlight. You couldn't try to hide, the pick in your heartbeat, from her mind. She bends over your bed, trapping you in, and your fingers on your arms are tightening, holding you in, trying to keep you from breaking.

She knows she's got you, and you can feel the rolling storm slowly unraveling in her every word. 

It's tortuous coming, a snake waiting. 

That's when she starts singing. 

"I want to know why you lead them to the old entrance. The one of the steep paths, and wild trees. The one cursed by so many that stepping foot near it is already a sure death incoming.The one which is haunted by half the lore of the land for the mistakes of those long-living men." 

And she is there, over you, and she knows. 

"The one which killed almost all of their guards before they could really say they had been there. They had arrived."

There is a single drop of sweat suddenly tracing down your spine, and your eyes are wide because why would she bring that here and now. You can't make sense of the intensity of her gaze when she pins you under its brightness. If she's angry at you, or if she's amazed. 

Suddenly, your reasoning that you had spent hours crafting, about their goals and their place in this wicked dance, it feels thin. And you can't speak, because it's unraveling at a speed, because you think, and you can't stop, you see her dark eyes, and her velvet dress, and you think of the Countess and what she would have in store for you, if she were to learn of your games.

You can be proud, alone, in the dark. But in the face of real life, you don't make much out. 

Yennefer bends closer, and her hair brush your face and you think you're glass under her gaze.

"I wondered, if Geralt had walked you up that path too, at first. But then I learned. Vesimir was really disappointed that he hadn't. I heard, how he reprimanded the White wolf for his trust. You were shown the slow road, the great skies. You were told of that back path. Of how dangerous it was." 

You close your eyes, because she's too close, and there are both accusations and praises in her voice, and you can't handle that now. Not when you don't know whether it will put you to death or keep you alive. 

"And you still send them through there. I wonder now" she sweetly adds, her fingers in your hair, and her voice in your mind "how loyal you really are to your Geralt"

\- - - 

Your breath is winded. 

You think of dark hair, and dark smiles and sparkling eyes. You think of mischief, and lies, and how you just wanted to die. 

Would it be so bad? 

\- - -

Triss comes again.

"I think this has gone on for long enough." 

You look at her. 

"Come on Bard" 

She leaves the room, and the door, open.   
And she calls again. "Come on!" 

You're not much of a human now, and you do need a change of pace every once in a while. You wonder, if it would finally be the one moment to make you decide. Whether it's worth it. Or -

You follow, unsure and unstable.   
But still you follow. 

\- - - 

Your trust was always the bane of your life.   
Your trust and your heart.

You should have learned. With your friend, first. With the countess, then. 

With Geralt (but it's not the same). 

You wonder, if your friend would be sad.   
If you were to come and join her now, other there, in the dark. 

\- - - 

"What's going on?" Yennefer screams, and the silence it leaves makes your ears ring. 

You heave and struggle, and you can't see her because she's at your back, and you, you only look for the door,your door. But the arms around you, restraining you, enclosing you, are strong. You wish it would just stop, sometime. Soon. If you could just drop it all now, begone. 

Because you trusted again. 

And you're stupid. But you're human, apparently with some instinct still, and so you keep on struggling. 

"Will you fucking stop it, you wanker!" the man screams in your ears and you just curl up as best as you can into yourself, heaving as he is trapping you in. You remember, his hands around your throat. His breath. It's shrinking your soul. 

But you won't talk.And you think your lips are closed but you can't really feel them anymore, under the strain of your jaw and the pressure of your teeth. You have locked it all in and you're done talking. 

There are voices, and it's loud. Louder than it's been for you in a while.You feel his chest behind you, and there is the ground underneath you. You see shadows of people and you hear their voices but you can only realize that the man, that Lambert, is bent over you, overwhelming, his warm breath over your cheek, and Triss voice that comes again, a whisper in your ear, on repeat - 

_A bath, Jaskier, it will do you good_

\- and it's water running down your face, and it's your lungs beating for air again, again, and you're shaking but you're desperate, so you start fighting him and his grip, again. 

\- - - 

You wonder what your friend would say, if you were to come by now. 

"Why?" You think she would ask. 

You would answer.

And say everything else, too.   
Because you were never really good at keeping anything from her.   
And maybe, also, because you need to. 

\- - - 

"Fucking stop it!" the man screams again, and you close your eyes."Fucking-what?" 

He stops shaking you suddenly, although he is still holding you in his grip. You blink open your eyes when he's done hurling. You feel weightless and dizzy, you don't think you're quite there in your own body. But you think, and you see a bit. So you start noticing things, apart from your deafening breathing. 

Someone is standing by your sides.   
It's the sorceress. 

You see Geralt' sorceress, and yet. 

You can't think of anything other but the hue of a velvet dress, and her smile sharp as glass,her feigned sweetness that rot at your heart before you could shelter yourself. Her hand on your arm and her fingers brushing your hair. _It's alright_ she had said. _It's alright_. 

"What's going on?" the sorceress asks again, and her blatantly bright eyes are cutting through your soul but you, stupid and human as you are, you just see the dark and you have to focus, to feel again, really and you bite your lips because you won't talk again, you won't. 

Even with a bath.   
You won't. 

You hear Triss, distant and desperate, calling for peace. Falling so far from it. 

"I don't know" she is protesting "I just thought he would feel better after a bath. It's been weeks-" 

And you just have to laugh at this, to hell with no talking, it's only amazing, and so you laugh out and you go on struggling. 

You think you're finally breaking.  
You think you'll soon be gone.   
You think about freedom. 

Until there is a hand catching at your throat, and another pressing down your neck, and you have to close your jaw in the sure hold. 

You think about the end, your end, and how maybe it won't even happen by your own hand. 

You think it's sort of funny, how you and your old friend, you would be a matching pair then. 

\- - - 

"What did you do?"   
Your friend, dear and cold, would ask.

You would say it all, and keep it true.

\- - - 

"Little prick" you think Lambert growls in your ears, always in your ears. He cries out, his hands relenting suddenly, and you're swinging, your mind reeling. 

From the side-step he takes you think Yennefer must have kicked him. She walks in front of you now and crouches to look in your eyes. 

Her bright eyes. So, so very bright.

"Jaskier" she says, blankly. 

You, you're lost a bit, between here and there, then and now, and it's painful for you to see her face and her eyes, because you can only watch as she turns dark and playful and hurtful into your mind, another countess, all wrong and still so right. 

You're getting weak. You just want your friend, you want her arms and her heart. 

Maybe you're really done. No matter how it's handled, you think.   
It wouldn't be so bad after all.

\- - - 

"What happened, after?" 

And you would explain, and gouge your lungs out in fear of them rotting from the inside. 

\- - -

"Fuck you" you reply, just to be contradictory. To her, to them, to your brain. To yourself, because you don't know who to trust anymore and your eyes seem to be leaking that damned water again, and your friend isn't there. She's long gone. But maybe, if you start pushing - 

You just want out of the game.  
It's a lot to take. And you don't want any of it left.

\- - - 

"Where were you?" 

You think of your friend.   
You think she would be waiting for you.   
It's been long enough, for the both of you. 

\- - - 

Yennefer doesn't react at your jab. She looks into your eyes, and there seems to be understanding in her heart. 

" I think we misjudged the situation" 

"Fuck you" you repeat. Because it's contradictory, because you don't know what will happen now that this is out in the open, but whether they are going to drown you in a bath or tuck you in a bed, you don't think your heart can manage. 

Your mind can't. And you don't want to open your mouth again. You just need your friend.

\- - - 

"Who died?" 

Oh. Right.   
You can't leave that out.

\- - - 

"It's just a goddam bath, you crazy" Lambert grinds out in your ears, shaking you again. And it's so much like the hold that one guard had on you, before, then, you can't say when, you're weak and you fail.

You want to give up. You want to bid them goodbye.To spit on their pride and their facts. For them to dig your grave out and dump you inside. 

But you're powerless in the face of life. 

Lost in the grip, and the past, the fear overtakes. And you fight. 

You elbow his stomach and you kick out, and your mouth, your goddamn mouth is flooded with your cries and your heart finally breaking out. You hear yourself, distant and not there, screaming _Fuck you! Drown me if you want, drown me but just be done with it already!_ and there are tears pricking at your eyes because god you hate it, you hate talking now.

You just want out.

\- - - 

You wonder what you would look like, on the other side. 

Because you don't feel much human now. 

\- - - 

You keep on struggling and heaving in Lambert's arms, weak and dried out. It takes you some time to realize, but there is suddenly a lack of strength in his grasp, and there is heavy silence all around. 

Yennefer says "We definitely misjudged the situation". 

You don't know what you feel, what you see. It's just there, everything, like you're here. You think you see, a dark shape pooling at your feet, moving and free. With her limbs and her glint. 

Your friend is here.

You're not much of a human, that's the truth. 

So when Yennefer snaps her fingers at you, you don't just sleep, but you fall. 

You do wonder, though, for how long. 

\- - - 

"How many did you kill, for her?" 

That, you won't answer.   
It's on you, and you alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again all for reading !   
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as the previous ones.
> 
> Love to you all!


	4. Judge : part I

Geralt comes, in the end.  
There is Cirilla, with him.  
He comes, and he is greeted in. 

Alive and breathing. From what you hear.  
You want to think it's more than you, at least. 

\- - -

You, you're back in your room.  
No one comes anymore to speak to you. 

You think, but you're not sure, that this time, the door isn't locked. 

But you don't want to give them the pleasure of hearing you try. And you don't believe you would know what to do, once it opens for you. 

\- - - 

Geralt comes in.  
And they speak.

You wonder, how long it will take for him to feel your presence. He used to, after so long spent side by side. He had explained it to you, once, a lifetime ago, that it was the heartbeat that gave you away. Under the potions, and even without them after a while, he could hear the beat of a specific heart. 

Every heart had its own tune it seemed, and you remember being left wondering what it sounded like, the sound of life. 

Now, you wonder, if he will even listen to your song, your call -

Or if you'll be left, once again, wanting and alone. 

\- - - 

The first words Ciri says are "Ah. So, that's you." 

And you can't help but smile when there is silence underneath you, and you feel it from your bed, the tension rising from Yennefer, and the sparks of her chaos materializing in her reply "Now, what does that mean, _piglet_?". 

You smile. 

That girl, she'll do alright. 

\- - - 

During the supper they share downstairs, you come to realize that the girl is at the same time, silly and wise. She pushes Yennefer to the tip of her control and makes herself at home with the Witchers. Geralt doesn't say another word about her. 

You look, at the ceiling above you, and you think it was high time he took his responsibility, finally. It'll do him good. To have a human being, truly dependent on him. 

Maybe it'll teach him, the importance and necessity of a steady relationship, in a life that is to be worth living. You had tried, before. You know Yennefer had too. But he wasn't ready then, and you were too broken still, too desperate for it. 

\- - - 

It's in the deepness of the night that he comes to you. 

He is silent, but you've learned from him too. Or that's what you always said, it never was true. 

You hadn't needed to learn how to wait in the dark for threats.  
You always had it in you. 

\- - - 

"You lied" 

It's a whisper, at first, lost in his usual growl.  
And you strangely feel eager to answer. 

Because whatever it is, in the dark, it's not singing this time. He isn't asking for anything. It's not talking either. 

It's you two. 

Just you two. 

You want to feel surprised, when it's a whisper that answers his.  
But you just think you're finally freeing your soul onto him. 

"You never asked" 

"You spied on me" 

You have to laugh at that.  
Of course you did. 

That's how you wrote your songs. 

And so you just smirk at him.  
" I made you history." 

\- - - 

You didn't realize, at first, that it would be of interest to her.  
You would sing her the song you had made in his honor. To watch her boil in restrained frustration. She couldn't care about a damn witcher. She wanted dirt, on the nobles and the mages and the main players. 

Not a poor lowly witcher.

You thought you had her, making him history. She couldn't threaten you with anything, you were still somehow working. You felt like you had finally succeeded. 

When in the end, you wonder if she didn't make you do it. 

\- - - 

It's frustrating for him, you see. 

It's frustrating, because although you've been side by side for years and years, and your heartbeat is tuned to his senses, he never seemed to stop long enough to consider you. It's almost heart-wrenching, the fact that you were just there for him, that he took it in strides, never questioning it.

You feel dead inside because deep down you know that's how it should go, every time. That's friendship. Or at least, that's how you remember it. Trust and honesty, and pure simple doings. No backward motives. 

Loyalty.

It makes you sad, when you think of the deepness of the clutches that had brought you by his sides the first time. When you think of all those times, when you felt like yourself and yet... you never really were there. 

It makes you sad, and you hope he will come to a decision soon, and make it quick for you. 

"You lied to me" 

That's what he leaves you with. 

\- - - -

The first time you saw Geralt, you think you might have been slightly too strung up, slightly too unhinged. 

She had played you well that time too, it had left you empty. 

So when you saw that man brooding in a left-alone corner of the inn, with swords and simmering air of danger, when your mind caught up with the fact that it was a witcher, you didn't think much. 

You were angry at her, you wanted to push it, you were bereft and you just needed to feel again. 

Carelessness, again. You've got that in spades.  
So you went, and you prattled, and when you only got a punch to the gut for your troubles, you wondered. How long it would take for him to end it all. 

It's the most restrained and controlled ones of society, who are the most exciting to see break. You know, you've been there.  
(and you wonder on the side if, if she hadn't poisoned you with her mind, you wouldn't have been the same nonetheless, deep down, thriving on that curious side of life)

You wanted to feel, and the darkness and the danger that witcher pulsed in waves, it drew you in. You wanted to see him break, you wanted to be there. 

For him to end it all, to leave you at rest. 

\- - - 

You didn't realize, it would only be a matter of time.  
And that whatever you prattled, whatever you let on, she fervently caught, trapped in her mind, to use afterwards. 

\- - -

Geralt never actually did, end it all, no fault of you for trying.  
You were surprised, and you pushed and you needled, but the witcher Geralt, the Butcher of Blaviken, never broke. 

He bore your wits and antics like no man had before.  
Until he couldn't. But then, he didn't end you. He just broke your heart. 

That wasn't what you were looking for, but by then, you thought maybe that you had already done enough. He had done enough. 

How wrong you were.  
She knew that, too. She had watched you, taught you.  
But, like most humans, you were never a bright student, were you. 

\- -- - 

When Geralt comes to your room again, his hands shake.  
You're no witcher, but the blood, you can smell. 

You wonder what happened, who died, for the taste to reach your mouth. It's pungent and heady. It makes you sick. 

"Why?" he rasps out. 

You falter, confused. 

"Why what?" 

"Why did you spy for her?" 

You wonder why it comes up now, when you can smell death nearby. Why it's the only thing he asks. Why it matters. 

You look away, because you're a coward, you could never look death right in the eye and that secret has got a special place in your heart.

"Jaskier"

You're stubborn and you still look away. 

"I know who you are." he says.

You snort. 

Of course he does, you've said it enough times. You're Jaskier. Sometimes Julian. Sometimes the Witcher's bard. Although, recently, with the blood and the memories, you feel more like _hers_ than any other. 

"Jaskier. I won't ask again." 

And there is an undercurrent of sadness in his voice. 

" Why, you, the Viscount de Lettenhove, noble of the court of Kreach, were you spying for her?"

The title leaves you baffled. How long ago was it, that anyone had last used it. How long ago. Because when the title went away, unceremoniously and silently, your complete opposite, when you left it behind, washing your hands of it, it had been -

It pains you, deeply. That Geralt could have unraveled something so deep. 

Of course, you had played a bit, with time and territories apart, in earshot of him. You had said your full name, your given name, just to see. Just to try it. Feel it again. The way it coined your muscles, shrinking them, humbling your boldness and rearing your carelessness. The way you would curl up inside, that never left. 

"When did you realize?"

You need to know, how long you've been playing for him too. Deep down, you think it will make it easier to let it all go. Knowing how long you've sang _for him_. 

But you don't like that idea. Singing was never his thing. It's unwelcome, that comparison, and it leaves an acrid taste on your tongue. No matter what Geralt does to you, he could never compare with her and you clench your teeth at the idea that churns your stomach and makes bile sneak up your spine. 

They aren't the same, although they're both seen as monsters. But you know which one is the worst; it's all in the eyes. Where desperate instincts have come to take the central stage, under the tune of pragmatism and coldheartedness. 

He never had that in him. You know, you've seen. You can bear witness to that morality.

You wonder, watching Geralt struggle, and feeling nothing inside, if your eyes have turned yet. If she had managed that. 

"I - didn't." 

It looks painful for him, to admit it. That he has left something so great pass by. Melancholy greets your heart, because he didn't break the key, and you're glad, to know that you've fooled yourself enough to fool him alike. 

It's less lonely, to see it like that. 

"How do you know?" You ask then. Because you can't be sure, but maybe the sorceress is for something in it, and she's maybe more like your own monster than she had led you to believe.

"I've met your cousin, Ferrant. He was thriving." 

You close your eyes because that's not something you ever wanted to see or hear or be part of again. Somehow, it's worse. You can't even blame Yennefer for telling him, for disrupting your mind and your peace, because it had to be your cousin. It's always been him. Always will be. The source. Your origins. 

"Good for him" 

"Jaskier. Why did you spy for her?" 

You look at him, and you believe your smile might be a tad too sad, a tad too honest, but at that point there isn't much else you can muster. You're drained. He has dug out with his bare hands what little you had left, and you're open, a grave. You think you've lost your soul along the way, and if that's what he is looking for, you also think you'll be waiting a while. 

"You've got everything laid out. Why don't you work your brain a bit and figure it out?" 

You aim for a laugh. It's broken, high strung. 

"I want to hear you say it, Jaskier." 

"You know my name, why do you keep up the charade?" 

"Because that's not who you are, to me and to everyone else here. And don't -" he shakes his head, lost "- don't make it harder than it already is. Please." 

You feel your eyes prick a bit, and your throat is wet and dry at the same time. You want to be truthful. You want to be honest. And yet. You've not voiced it aloud since then.

You don't think you can start again. So you spin, a badly sawed tell-tale heart piecing itself back on your lips, and it flourishes, jarring and discordant over your tired features. 

"I made a mistake, I guess..." and you want to keep on spinning that thread, but your lungs are empty, and your arms too heavy for the weight of those theatrics. 

Jaskier has left.

It falls flat and you can't pick it up again. Jaskier has left and you don't think there's much to take, apart from bones and veins. 

Julian feels dead. 

You've made a mistake. Those words turn around your head. It's not enough, you can tell. It could never be enough for what made you what you were. But. It's the closest you've ever been to the truth, since then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is near!  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'm really relieved Geralt is finally here (weird to say as the writer but I couldn't keep it bottled up anymore). 
> 
> I'll admit I stopped this chapter BEFORE anything could really happen (wait for it, and please breathe. No character death. Although...)
> 
> See you soon for the last part!


	5. Judge : part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of International women's day (it will make sense, hopefully, at the end of the chapter?)
> 
> ADDITIONAL WARNINGS that have been added with this chapter:  
> \- mentions of rape  
> \- mentions of abortion / possibly graphic depiction of an arbotion  
> \- mentions of death 
> 
> Be safe, take care.

"A mistake." 

And that's the coldness in his voice, it shocks you awake again. You look at him then. And it's the tension in his posture, and the blankness on his face, that makes what's left of your defenses goes up again. 

"Yes. A mistake." You voice, you shake.

"You call that a mistake." 

You tick. And you can feel it in the air turning sour suddenly, tickling your senses. 

There's something you missed. You are wrong-footed, it's startling. Like you've missed the cue, or didn't listen to the pace. Like you've missed your chance to explain. 

And it's terrifying, that opportunity flying away so quickly. 

You make to stand, faltering in your strength, but suddenly, Geralt is there, near. Overwhelming. 

Geralt is there, but he grabs you by the collar of your shirt, and shoves you to the ground. 

You find yourself falling. Your head is spinning, and you feel distantly you're hurting. When you blink the fog away, it's all clear. 

"A mistake" Geralt growls in your ear. 

He is there, crouched over you, watching you. And there's fury glinting in his eyes, and the fresh smell of blood clinging to his clean hands, and that's what makes you pause. 

The fury, that so long ago you'd been looking for. The desire to end it all. 

That's why you don't notice the blade pressing down your throat, and the grin, feral and wide, that's splayed on his mouth. 

"A mistake!" He roars again. 

You're gone, you feel. It's wrong. It's too soon, and it's not right, not now that you actually feel like it's time. It's not right. 

And you make to speak, but he snarls over you, pushing you down, inhibited in hatred. 

"You call that a mistake! Raping that girl" he spites as if it's burning him "- and killing her, and others! A mistake! When your cousin had to send you away, cover for you-"

And when you hear those words, that's when you loose it all. 

Laughter spills from your guts and your soul, because oh but you know those words, and that past hurts but he's the one who teased it. You want to break it all over again, and have at him with the pieces that are left. Like you went at her before, the Countess. 

When she would play you too raw and string you too tight, when you would break wild at her attacks. Before going numb, leaving it all behind.

So you laugh, in his face, under his blade. Because that's not your truth, that's not Ferrant's either although he would love to. That's hers. 

It has her fingerprints all over. 

And it makes you oh so sad that your witcher would fall for her trap. You wonder, hysterically, how and when they met, what she would have told him, how she got him to enter the dance. 

Why he followed as she led.  
Why he isn't dead yet then.  
Why you're still there. 

But it's neither here nor there.

Geralt breathes harshly as you struggle suddenly against him, still laughing, madness washing over your senses, and you might not be a witcher, and you might not be much, but you can hold your own. You can push and pull and shove, even down guts and bowels if needed. You can fight back. Even if it's only to gather the last shreds of your tattered pride. 

Because those words, that's something you'll never allow. For the Countess to finally succeed in smearing that tar over your life, and Cathy's,as she's warned she would do many times anew. 

Even though you know, with you, and her, in this world, what is truth really but what she wants it to be.

And you keep on laughing as you scream at him, raw and gritted thin  
"You've spoken to her, haven't you? Oh Gods! You spoke to the Countess! And that's what she told you! And you, you believe her! After everything-" 

Geralt presses down against you, and it tears a cry out of you when there are bones cracking underneath the skin. He doesn't seem to notice. There isn't even a wince. "You've raped a girl, _Julian_." 

You've finally lost him. He will do you in. 

That's your certainty. 

"You've raped - an innocent servant girl-" he growls again, pressing with each breath on your chest. And the crack in his voice, it's the betrayal piercing through. As if he is finally making sense of you. 

It hurts, all of it.  
It hurts you too, you think. She's dug her claws in deep.

But it doesn't matter now. The betrayal. The crumbling walls. That's not why you're both here. It doesn't matter, that you're hurting, and you're done trusting. 

It's the last dance, the final act. Where you, the bard, come clean of all your lies. And you hope, by the Gods and Melitele and all, you hope, you won't be left alone when it's all gone. 

That you can find that trust, that she so swiftly destroyed.  
Your head is reeling, but it's gone too far, and you keep on playing those words, crawling out of his mouth. _You've raped an innocent servant girl_.

It doesn't matter, that there's no air left in you, that you can feel shards moving in you, because you will never allow for that to be uttered last. You don't want those words to close your life. 

She does love her tale, the Countess, playing around, sewing grand gestures and grieving acts, whispering about injured pride, wronged women and justice all she likes. Because avenging honor, innocents, the poor and the lost, it's easy to justify. Easier to think of, to understand, in this narrowed world than the willing refusal of a life that has yet to be.

 _You've raped an innocent servant girl_.

(you did wonder, sometimes, if she didn't see herself in those lines) 

And how she would spread these well-loved and worn themes on your life, down your throat, to the point where you would bristle under their barbs, sick at the thought. Because what's worse, than to take away a choice from someone - 

_You've raped an innocent servant girl_. 

And to have one of the few persons you came to trust, after her manipulations, that friend with whom you've shared hours and days and years, to have that friend believe those lies and those stories. Because it would suit who you are, wouldn't it? Or who you were, around him, at least. 

You wonder if it's the time spent apart, that's finally made it's dent in your lives. 

It hurts, to be thought of so little. The distrust, seeping in Geralt's eyes. It hurts, but what's worse, is that you don't want for these words, venomous as they are, to define your death, or Catherine's life, until the end of times.

 _An innocent servant girl_ , that doesn't even begin to uncover the soul she had, or her power or her fire, and Geralt can kill you then, but for her, oh for her, you'll never. 

She deserved more than that. She always had. She can't do anything about it now, but that's on you to try and save it, at last. 

That's your duty, as a bard. To sing the songs of those wronged in the past. 

"That poor girl, and when she became pregnant, you -" Geralt growls again. 

You buckle and you spit in his face, and you roar back at him with all your strength "Don't you dare call her that!" 

And your teeth show, and your throat feels wet and coated warm, and you feel the blade gripped in your hands and the blood running down your arms "Don't you dare say that of Catherine! She was more than anything you or the Countess or anyone could imagine! She was smart, and great, and don't you dare say of her that she was nothing more than _a poor innocent servant girl_!" 

Geralt seems to falter, slightly, like he never expected for those words to be uttered against his. 

He swallows, and grinds out again "You raped he-"

"She was my friend!-" You scream out then, because there's no bigger truth than that one, and your arms are weak and your head is turning but you keep on screaming "-she was my friend, and she needed my help, and I would have given up anything for her, because she was my friend! My place, my title, even my name!"

His golden eyes flash, and you think you've touched through his senses. There's realization, hitting through. And you hope- 

The blade is pressing harder against your throat, you're weak in the end and you feel tears slipping out, but the greater truth will never be said enough "- she was my friend" you hiccup "she was my friend she was my-"

It tears a roar out of him, like he can't really make sense of it.You would feel sad a bit, if you weren't so caught up in your own deeds. 

"I want to hear you say it" he says suddenly, standing up, cold and remote. You cough up and curl on your side. But he hovers, the sword secured and his stance clear. He will make an execution out of this whole thing if needed. Even if it pains him. 

Because monsters are what he kills.

"You want me to say what?" you rasp because you can't bear it anymore "What do you want to hear, Geralt? The countess's words or Ferrant's? Or maybe mine? Catherine is dead, I was there, everyone else is alive, there are your facts!" 

You cough again, strangled in laughter, and Geralt is tense and waiting over you, but at this point, you might as well let it all out before it chokes you. 

One life. And as many tales as there are singers. You've never sang it enough, you suddenly realize. If you had, maybe your truth would have won out. 

" You want me to say that I raped her?" you ask, with a hard glint in your eyes and Geralt coils, ready to strike, fingers clenching on his weapon "-and then when she got pregnant, I pushed her to her death? That with my cousin's advice, I fled my home to hide? That the Countess was just being benevolent, taking me under her wing, putting me on a leash, to keep an eye on me. Is that what you want to hear?" and you laugh again, because it's so absurd and yet it's here now, and you're not done, so far from it so you go on. You know how to keep an audience on the tip of their toe.

"Or do you care for my side of the story, and Catherine's? Where my friend, my dearest friend, made a mistake and ended up pregnant and shamed by her family and the rest? The one story where I decided to stay true and follow her through whatever she wanted to do? The one where-" And you choke, because you never told that, to anyone, to any soul, after the countess drank it greedily from your lips so many years ago.

But you see the glint of the sword and you feel the cold air at your throat and you don't want these venomous words of hers to be the end of Catherine's story, or yours. You crawl back to the wall and its roughness encloses you, pushing you to let it all go. 

So you choke, on and on, until you feel it raw on your tongue 

"- the one where my friend wants herself free, because there was still so much to live and she could never have managed it, and the man she turns to for that price just butchers her up and leaves her bleeding and dying? Do you really want to hear how I just stood there, by her side, watching her die? How I left her alone to breathe her last while I went and killed the one who had betrayed her trust and murdered her before my very eyes, for some coins and a laugh?" You look at him with all the pain and hatred that you've got left in your life, and it burns, it burns deep down, because that's nothing more than an infested plight that's been festering inside. You were both too young, too ignorant. “Do you want to hear about my cousin’s schemes, how he made certain that this didn’t fall back on our family? How he sent me away, quietly, and then right into the arms of the Countess? Because he knew she could keep me in check? Make sure I wouldn’t come back, I would keep silent, with a nicely tied threat hanging over my neck? ”

It's shame, and guilt and borrowed bravery, nothing you ever could hope to fill. It's all there is. The last of your friendship with Catherine, how you left her alone to die because of some distorted notion of pride. How her death was used for courts intrigue. How you became the scapegoat for many unexplained crimes. How you were finally useful to some people. 

And there it is, the result of all of that, an ugly smile finding it's right place on your lips, and a hard glint to your eyes. She's succeeded, the Countess, you think at last, as you open your mouth, she's turned you too, like her, a coldhearted bastard, her greatest work of art. 

"Do you really want to hear that?" you gloat at him "No, of course not! It's not nearly as appetizing as the rape by a stupid young noble man of an unnamed and unremembered _innocent servant girl_ " you jeer at him.

"You would rather hear of pain and murder, where you can go and be the rightful judge, like everyone else. Reality isn't crude enough, it's not good enough, is that it? But I've told you before Geralt, respect doesn't make History." 

You're too deep to notice, if he understands anything of what you're saying. But it's fine, you feel freer already. Even if it's the end, you'll have said it. And maybe it will matter, this time around. Out of the pressure and rigidity of social life. 

"That she had a lover, and they both fucked up, and he ran away from her, it doesn't matter! That she had a choice, and she decided to use it all." you tear, because you remember her when she took that decision. You remember the dilemma, of keeping the pregnancy, or not, and the nights spent by her side, listening to her. The tears and the rawness when she said she was ready, when you never were. You could never have been. 

"That she died, from that alone. That's the story where no one but her has the agency. You, or Ferrant, or the Countess, you don't fit in it, with your pride and your rightful ways.There's no pure victim, there is no innocent girl tainted. There is no one to avenge, there's no one for revenge but a free woman taking a stand and paying the price! Because that’s our world, and their laws and their ways! And she didn't fit in it, she never had and she never will!”

Geralt just looks at you, and you can't stop now, and yet you feel like you're done. Talking was always your thing, Jaskier's, and it's almost gone. 

Julian never made to speak. He was too well-educated.  
You think it's time you greet him in. And leave Jaskier with a last flourish.

"Which one will it be, Witcher?" you finally snarl at him rising from the ground, feral and wild, a being trapped for too long in the past. "Which story suits you better?" 

You stagger towards him, spitting blood in front of his feet, black with hatred. 

"Be careful though" you warn him with a sneer, catching the blade in your butchered hand and bringing it to your throat, raw and coated."I care about Catherine. She was my friend. If you're looking for a clean kill, you will not degrade her name again like you just did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm grumpy. (I'm not really happy about this. So many issues to write on. So many things I wanted to say, but it didn't fit... I'm grumpy). 
> 
> Anyway, my grumpiness aside, because it doesn't matter, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Next chapter is the epilogue/proper end (I aimed for 3 chapters when I started...seems I can't keep my numbers in check!!)
> 
> To next time dearies!


	6. Helping hand : part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies. So many apologies are owed all around I don't even know where to start? 
> 
> Here's the first part of what was *supposed* to be the last chapter of this mess... in the end I reworked it and decided to add a lot more comfort because these are trying times for everyone all around. 
> 
> So multi-part last chapter here it starts! We're almost there I swear. Everything's fleshed out, it's just that I'm always rewriting things and it's always getting longer than necessary. And I don't want to dump a final +4000 words chapter on you. I want to make it nice and cosy, bits by bits. So you've got the first part and I will be posting the next one(s?) weekly.

In the end, Geralt doesn't kill you.

It shouldn't surprise you.

But you're just human, Justice, it's not real to you...and maybe deep down, you feel an ache because you wonder if, before the Countess, before Catherine's death, you wouldn't have held up friendship, destiny and fate higher in the games.

He doesn't kill you.

He leaves though.  
Leaves you bloody and dizzy with rightful pride, without looking you in the eye.

That's more painful than it should have any right to be. You might be crying?

\- - -

You're still standing, bleeding, and breathing ragged, when you hear the door closing behind him. Your hands are left clenching at nothing, the cold of the blades still stinging.

The fight that explodes behind your door, you do not expect it. You don't make much out of it, although there are his grunts and Yennefer' sharp tone in answer. There is magic and energy crowding the narrow corridor, and seeping beneath your door. That, you can feel.

"How stupid are you?" she ends up snarling.

There are no replies to this.

You still don’t know what to make of it.

\- - -  
Triss comes in.

You're still standing there. You don't know how long it's been. You don't really care.You can't think.

She comes, and walks slowly, hands raised up in front of her and eyes shinning like a calm sea under a bright sky.

"Jaskier" she calls, unsure.

It's like she's probing a dead animal to see if it's still breathing.

You just watch her. Jaskier, he isn't there anymore, the boisterous bastard that could take any hit to his pride and bounce back with a song and a smile. The manipulative ass.

It's only you, what you are, deep down, what you were made to be. Blood and flesh and no will. What you were, all of its nothingness, emptiness, before. Before your friends. Before your trials and errors. Back when you didn't try, you didn’t lie. To yourself, most of all. And to the world at large, as a sideshow.

It’s only you. A blank sheet, where anyone can come and scratch down their envies.

So you just watch as she comes closer. You don't reply when she asks how you are. You don't even shy away from her hands, taking in yours, the ivy of her magic growing over your skin, her breath blowing waves of quietness in your ears. Her warm embrace, hiding your body under her protective wings of leaves. You blink, you hear the ruffle of branches, when she whispers softly.

You blink, you feel her tears, running down her jaws to yours. When your own well of feelings has dried up, she’s come to water your soul with hers.

You wonder if Triss will be the stake that tries to help you reach for the skies again.

You listen, carefully, silent, to the heartbeat that proves she is true. She exists, right there, beside you. And she whispers it. That it's there, near you, a world of possibilities, of atonement, of help. You’re certain she’s right. She just doesn’t see it all. It’s there, that’s true. If you would just try and shrug away that dead child, that will-less being.

Julian.

You can't think, really, but there's one certainty.  
Jaskier is dead. And _He_ , he isn't leaving.

\- - -

" What will you do?" Lambert asks, voice echoing from downstairs, toneless and deadly.

There are still no replies.

\- - -

Geralt doesn't come in again.

You haven't gone out either.

He hasn't spoken neither, or you weren't close enough to listen.

So you're still waiting.  
No point in trying to live if it's to end up dying.

\- - -

Triss has healed your palms and your throat, it's tender, and she wonders aloud, moving about your chamber, if she hasn't triggered anything else, like an old curse or a jinx, since you don't seem amenable to speak.

There is a crash, downstairs. And an echo of purple magic, sparkling. A door slamming.  
She tenses.

You watch her, there's not much else you can do.

How can she want to spend time by you?

\- - -

He doesn't come, and yet you're crowded.

Triss is there, often. She teases, as she opens your window, and jokes, when she hands you new bed linen, she speaks, about the nature around the house, how it’s glowing, how the days keep on running, trying to get you to join in, to smile, just a bit.

You follow her with your eyes. There’s not much else you can do.

It doesn't feel right for you. That she doesn't ask anything from you.

You can see how the sorceress tries to keep on smiling, to keep up the spirit. You see, too, how your blandness seeps into her eyes, poisoning her mind. She keeps up the smiles, and calls in the wind from outside. But it’s always there, the flicker in her dark eyes when she turns to leave. Your silence, claws digging in.

The stake slowly moulding, under the weed of your past deeds.

It seems you're not done hurting those who try to keep you by their sides.  
And you wonder why she tries. When everyone else seems to have given up on your life.

\- - - -

Catherine.  
The Countess.  
Geralt.  
All the lies swirling around your mind, reaching for others’ trusts and drying them out, for the flickering world of your songs, and the life you've crafted upon.

Your truth was never good enough. Why should it start now.

\- - -

Geralt still isn't there.  
You think he’s left.

You're breathing, still. And it's hurting.  
You don’t know what to make of it.

\- - -

You're crowded.  
That’s a fact.

When it's not Triss, it's the girl, Ciri, who sneaks in and speaks to you, rambling.

The first time she came in you wouldn't even dare to breathe. She just barged in, running around, a feral cat needing to get energy out out out. You felt the tension in the house rise, when someone called for her to come down and she just slammed the door and hid under your bed.

You looked at the door, and the open window, and there was bile rising from your bones.

You heard the steps by the door. You felt the magic being performed, sneaking from between the wood planks of the floorboards and slithering around. You stopped breathing, you bent down and gripped Ciri’s shoulder tightly and tugged her up, away from the floor, from those dark tendrils of energy that were looking for something, someone. Ciri didn’t say anything when she settled on the bed with you, arms looping around your back with a smirk on her face and her finger on her lips.

Silence.

As if you could speak.

“Piglet” Yennefer called. You tensed.

“Don’t overstay your welcome.” The sorceress sneered. The magic receded in a twirl. You blinked.

How could they trust you around her? When you're still alive, and they've heard it all, your past and your lies. When your truth clearly is still not enough for Geralt.

\- - - -

So Ciri comes.

She rambles, as she jumps around the room. From the bed to the cabinet to the window sill.

Your heart skips a beat when she titters over its edge. You don’t want more blood on your hands. And doing nothing, while she falls, it would hit too close to home.

But she just laughs, waving at Yennefer outside.

And she rambles. About Roach, the mountain, nobility. About crowns she made from the flowers Triss gave her, and fern rising from the walls downstairs. About duty. About cooking.About the spiders hidden in the ceiling. About how it's all chaotic, every move a new piece in the game, and it doesn't really matter, but what is important is one's deeds. Even small ones. Even the lies.

She's too young to know so much. But you guess that's what happens when you're taught so violently to grow up.

When she jumps from the window to roll on the floor, she talks about Geralt, who is never telling her anything of what he is doing. Lambert, who follows him.Yennefer, who is angry at them. Vesimir, who settles their disputes and Triss who waits, to patch them all back up again.

She has so much to ramble on, and so many people she likes to be with. Even here.  
You wonder why she is there instead, with you.  
Where the others can be that she only has you to open up to.

\- - - -

Sometimes, Ciri comes in during the night. She is swift and invisible. You startle enough every time that every one must know where she’s at.

Those nights, she just crouches by the head of your bed. You’re lying there, awake and listening.

And she talks about the castle where you had met, years ago. When you were still a singing bard, and her a brazen princess. She speaks, of her grandmother, and her grandfather. She stutters over the games of the kids, and the song they would recall after you had left the court.

She whispers, what she saw afterwards. The reality of policies and laws. Her grandmother’s rights. Wars. Her place in it all.

It’s a weight she unloads from her shoulders, one stone at a time, carefully picked to fit the jewels of her weaponry and the tapestry of your mind. You feel like she’s asking you to gather it all, in your arms, a never-ending string of memories, but you don’t know why.

She seems to think you’re alike. With the burden of nobility at your backs, the one that buried you alive. The one she has to built back up from scratch, that threatens to swallow her down.

One night, she asks, if you, with your words, and your keys, and your voice, you couldn’t sing it better than she can speak it. Unlock the box of the life that used to be. The court of Cintra, before its fall. The truth of it all. The good and the bad.

The lesser evil, if there’s even one.

\- - - -

That night, when she asks, and your throat closes and you feel a wave coming over your senses, your fingers tighten around your pillow, an itch at their tips, looking for something, and lacking the roughness of wood and strings underneath.

It’s dread, overwhelming. Drowning you and your feelings.

That night, you whisper back to her. That you can’t anymore. Sing.

She looks at you with confusion in her eyes. She glances around.

You don’t need a lute to be a bard, she declares at last. If that’s what you’re worried about. You’ve got the words, and the voice. The mind. That’s enough.

For the people to learn of Cintra, to remember the past.  
To forgive what’s to come and walk on.  
She knows that.

You say that coming from you, it would be a lie. You weren’t there and you can’t see further than the present time. Everything you used to say, it’s water running out to the sea and weak winds in the wild. It’s nothing. And it’s not to be trusted.

She says that she was there. Her memories, no matter how weak and ill, it should be enough ground for you to raise life from. You did it before, with Geralt's.  
And she says that you used to speak for the future too, even if it was only one you longed for. That it wasn’t a lie. That was hope, and emotions, and -her voice cracks when she says that – sometimes, that’s all we have left and all we can reach for. Some foundations to grow from. 

She was there. She’s told you. And you’ve always managed to be there too, before, in spirit if not in person. So there’s no reason you can’t anymore.

You find you can’t reply.  
You don’t know whether it’s good or bad.

Your fingers tingle again. You feel like you want to reach out.

Life or Death be damned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter.  
> And for coming back to this left-aside piece of writing. 
> 
> I admit I'm feeling quite down to have left this work out there like that, although I had everything finished and ready to publish. There's nothing I can do to atone for that crime, but take the work up again and finally publish it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it. Sorry for those looking for Geralt! There's a good reason he isn't there now! He is coming back! I swear he is! I swear! Just, give him time. He doesn't do emotions well, we all know that by now. And there was a lot of emotions felt last time. I hope you appreciated the dynamics between Jaskier and the girls nonetheless. You might have to wait for the very very last part of this mess for a good and deserved talk between our bois but it's coming. It's coming. Do not despair please. 
> 
> Cheers and stay safe dearies!


	7. Helping hand : part II

\- - - - - 

You don’t know how long it’s been, since Geralt’s gone and left you reeling.  
It’s not been that long, but still. You can’t tell how long. 

It’s all the same anyway. More or less. 

You stay there. You breathe. You think. 

Well. That’s not entirely right.There’s something. A small pulling, that drags inside of you, to the pit of your guts, a pull, a push, something. It moves, it has started prowling. A spark, that has alighted upon the dying embers of your soul; your muscles coil and shiver, tremble with that small desire. 

Ciri had touched something when you had exchanged words that night, and your heart might be beating twice again in the daylight now, and your fingers might want to reach for something to create, for later, in time. To be remembered.

It is all so strange, to find that desire again. You look at the sky, and you long for something, anything. You’re longing. For you don’t know what, you’re longing. But you know it’s near, and it could soon be in your grip, protected, away from the world and its sick spirits. 

At least, you think that you’re feeling something. That’s more than just thinking. Just being. 

So you wait, still, probing softly at the gash in your tears and trying to see if there’s any pain that could send you drowning again. You wait, and you take it all in instead, the world that’s kept on turning out there. 

Your eyes are closed and your heart is opened, a gate wide and tall, crafted to invite the world whole. It’s a practice you had lost, or that you couldn’t notice anymore after a while, a second nature to your merrymaking skills, that had made you such a master in your craft. You had learned it at Catherine' sides, when she would sing and talk and think out loud. You had used it at Geralt's, when you had realised how insensitive he had had to become to his own world, to work and live and fight the wars that no one wanted. You had used it to remind him, to pester him, that there was still something left in him that was ringing, singing attuned to the world and its beauties. To coax him back to the land of the living, when he was done killing. 

And here you are, leaning against the rumbles of that art, left aside for some time now, dusting its ruins and feeling for it anew in the shadows of your heart.

Sitting, silent. Listening, voracious for any hint of marvels, and sights and miracles, in the lowly society you had called your own. It feels right, to work at it again, now. A first step, on an unstable ground. One of the many paths to the mountains of your art. The one that feels right, for now. 

Your eyes are closed and your heart is opened. There’s Triss, bringing in, with her laughter, the buzz of insects working in the forest, and Ciri with her dried flowers in her hair, and Yennefer, barely a trace, whose magic just stands there, by the walls, a thin shimmer of comfort, a cover pulled snugly over you all. You know she isn’t there, but her magic is. That’s a trick you haven’t yet dwelled on solving. It could very well be amazing. 

Amazing. It’s a feeling you hadn’t taken the time to notice, recently. 

\- - - - 

That day, you’re under the open window of your room, breathing in the comforting breeze, fingers playing in the sun, feeling for the warmth of the air, and there is a hum in your head. It’s been there teasing your mind for a while, with the sounds of people, and the smells of roasted apples and sibilant cries of battles, an harmony building on the dust of your past beliefs. Politics, theatrics and tragedy. 

You had felt it growing, almost blooming, that hum, that music. Creeping, from your mind to your ears. You don’t know where it came from, these rumors of cords and tunes, but it’s taken to your empty thoughts like weed to the ground. You don’t think you would mind, that peculiar brand of wild ideas, encroaching on your dead will. Your mind had been a bit depleted before, and weed is already something. Even if it’s invasive.

That day, the hum is on your lips too, you haven’t realized it though, until silence makes itself known, again, a grain of sand in the whirlwind of your wishful thinking. Until Ciri tenses and the shift in energy leaves you on the brink of snapping, blinking. She is on the window sill yet again, her official post, but she’s listening. You think. 

She’s stopped talking, it feels. This emptiness, it leaves you drifting. You can’t remember when you started composing again, in the nest of your thoughts, stitching Ciri’s yarn and creating a kingdom from keys and notes. But now that you’ve stopped, it’s a silence that crackles and the fact that Ciri has stopped talking, it’s your work, all that fabric turning to ashes. To crumble, in the face of the void that had been and could not let go. 

Your eyes are closed, your ears straining to the outside world, reaching for the rustle of leaves, the chirping of swallows. 

Now you open your eyes. Because there are no birds crowding outside, and the wind doesn’t play its part. And that’s not just in your mind. Because it’s been long enough that it’s in the past, but not long enough for you to have shaken away the ripples of what happened, the last time you found yourself unsuspectingly surrounded by silence. 

Ciri is quiet and attentive above you. You feel the tension running through her limbs. When your hands come to the floor, the wood slithers with magic, it pricks your skin, almost burning. There is a whisper crawling up your limbs, cradling your spirit. 

Ush, bardling. Ush.

And your heart wants to size, because no one but her called you that. You think. You can’t remember. It’s all a mess, and it wasn’t supposed to matter again. 

The magic still crawls over you, you look at Ciri, who doesn’t move, who doesn’t seem to see the tentacles worming their ways over her footing, her hands, keeping her still. 

Don’t move. 

You flinch, your teeth grinding. But you swallow and you think. You try. If you let go of the words, their pace, their rights, it’s Yennefer’s voice that envelops your mind. Her blinding eyes alight on the music of her lies. 

You shake in a shiver her weak hold and you gather yourself, mind and soul and all, and crouch, hand reaching slowly for Ciri’s jacket. You will do what you can, even if it’s not much, to protect the force that sent you roving again. The magic seems to sense your meaning, and like a wave it leaves you and Ciri, flowing over the sill and running down the walls to the outside world. 

Ciri resists your tugging, gripping the window sill. She doesn’t even acknowledge your trying. You clench your teeth, you want to speak, but Yennefer voice is still roaming in your ears. 

Ush. 

You’re not good for many things anymore, but doing what you’re told was always your default.  
You just hope now that it won’t be, again, your fall.

\- - - 

You don’t know how long it takes, how many breaths you process, before Ciri joins you down there. You don’t know how long the silence last, unmoving and tensed by her side, before there is a rush of cold, and you hunch over her, your back tingling with suppressed horror, because you can feel it, it’s a fall, of magic, breaking down, scratched like chalk from a board, the rumble of stones against stones, a growl. 

And a scream – light and airy. Cut short quickly. 

You’re left bereft by the sudden lack of sound, but when Ciri crouches, you still have enough left in your brain to realize that no, that’s not happening, and you tug harshly at her jacket, sapping the momentum she had been gathering to take off and sending her crashing into your chest. 

It hurts your heart. She struggles. She kicks and she tries. There’s a desperation you know well enough by now.But you don’t relent, you can’t. She wants to go out, she wants to help, she wants to try. But you know, you know, because you’ve been there, sometimes, it’s better to stay back and gather the pieces afterwards. And she won’t get mixed up in that. Not while you’re still alive. 

Not when the silence is still there, over her grunts and her attempts at freedom. Not when all the magic has left. When there isn’t a whisper from Yennefer left. 

You grind your teeth and you bite your lips, because it’s the dread, coming up again, rearing its ugly head, breathing wetly down your neck. The dread, of being left behind, with Ciri to protect, flesh and bones for this round, more, so much more than just the rumors and the heards-of of last time. Ciri’s there, in your arms, there’s the memory of water running down your spine and it had already been so close that last time, your heart turns to stone from the inside. 

You feel empty, and shallow, alone with the key to it all.  
Useless for this. When more should have been necessary. More time, more protection, more factions. More, of magic and of strength. More Witchers, more sorceresses. Geralt. Yen. And everyone else. 

Not just the bard.  
Not just the liar and the coward.  
Not just the last human to count. 

There is another rush of wind, boiling magic running in. The wood of the house creaks and cries, your skin is burning and freezing at the same time, and there is a gurgle from outside, weak and dry, which echoes warm and red in your mind, clogging to the earth in a pitiful drip to resound. 

Ciri has stopped struggling, and you listen the both of you, over your heavy breathings, to gravel keening under heavy steps, steel left to fall against the ground in a clutter of jarring sounds. You can see, from the corner of your eyes, the skies are blue above you. Again. 

But still no words. 

You grab Ciri’s shoulders, ready to push her under you, for protection, for hiding, you’re ready to crawl on the floor, to the door, when you hear a curse down, back there, and sparks are careening up the skies, exploding in tiny purples fumes, and you, you can only look up into the twinkling blue. Because the sky is blue, and tainted with purple, and you had missed it, that color. 

There is a growl, in answer. 

A slap, then. And strangled laughter, louder, far away. Laughter. 

You and Ciri, you look at each other, eyes wide. You don’t want to hope, but you feel Yennefer’s magic gathering around her like a storm, puffing and huffing, an enclosed house-cat hissing, just outside the door of the house, beneath your window. It’s not a lion anymore, it’s smaller, a show for the others. You wonder if Ciri can feel it at all, her eyes bright and her fingers tight around your hands. Yennefer curses again and you hear one hit, and many, unrelenting, on someone, or something. 

“Stop it” Geralt grunts finally. 

You think you hear Lambert laughing again. With Triss. 

“Stop it I said!”

Ciri turns to water under your hands, at the voice that freezes you on the spot, and she flees, with a screech that would have made your ears bleed, to the door and the stairs, and you’re not there yet, you’re not sure what’s happening, so you do the only thing that comes to you. 

You start running too.  
Because you’ll be damned if something happens to her, without you. 

\- - - 

How you do it, you can’t think, but you’ve caught up with Ciri before she crosses the landing. Your hand is reaching for her collar, the closest thing you can grab, and you hate it, you hate it, and you feel your muscles shivering, but if it means her security, you would do anything. You want to stop her, tug her back inside, until everything’s sure and safe all around. Because you know, even if Yennefer and Geralt are outside, what they could have left on the side to die. You’ve seen too many a time, the battlefield at their back. And Ciri is still so young, she’s seen so much, she shouldn’t endure more. 

But before your very eyes, Ciri leaps and almost steps outside, you’re just shy of taking hold of her and there is fear pooling in your lungs, waves lapping at your throat, asking you to come home. 

And there is a shadow in the doorway, and she crashes into it, fast and blinded, cut short in her rush. You reach for her as she stumbles back, clearly dizzy, and you hold her, tightly, in front of you, as you face the person she has tumbled into. 

Because of course.  
Of course. 

It’s Geralt. 

He is dirty and bloody, pale but human. Living.  
You catch each others’ eyes. 

\- - - 

You stop breathing, or likewise. Your ears are buzzing with the rush of running and the fear of drowning in your own distresses, and he looks like he wants to say something, lips thin and eyes burning. You’ve just stopped breathing. Waiting. 

Maybe that will be it. 

He opens his mouth, closes it. You tremble under the judgement that will destroy your soul. He looks back outside, to the clearing and the trees. Where you can hear the others’ arguing softly about something. Your hands are made of lead, your fingers numb and you can’t hold Ciri anymore, but she doesn’t move, settling back with a moody gloom into you. 

And still, Geralt stands and doesn’t speak.  
You’re still waiting.

Triss steps in, too. She has her hands watered clean but you can smell it clinging, the smarting of iron, of blood, under the freshness of the river and the drying light of the sun. She looks tired and she just stops, when she sees the three of you there. She doesn’t complain. She just watches with tiredness etched in her eyes and a slump to her shoulders, readying herself to another bloodshed. Another grave.

“Can I go outside now?” Ciri asks. 

And you just watch as Geralt swallows, and doesn’t want to relinquish his hold on your eyes. How he slowly turns his gaze to her, and pats her head softly. He looks back at you, unsure and searching, and your stomach cramps and your lungs break, overflowing with dread, when he whispers to her, his eyes turned to you - 

“Not yet. Just wait.” 

You want to ask him what for. Your death or your fall, what is it all for. 

But Geralt only presses his lips in a thin line, and Triss comes, and sweeps away Ciri, up the stairs, asking her to help with potions and seeds, they need more of it. Yes, again. 

You stand bereft, without Ciri to hold onto, you think the wind could break you. And Geralt just watches you. You’ve always told him he wasn’t good with feelings. You’ve always told him to speak. With words. But then again, that was before. Although you wonder if it’s not catching, that peculiar brand of unease, an illness that spreads like your misdeeds. 

You think your lungs are getting wet again. You think your throat has lost its air. 

You wonder, listening to the shuffle upstairs of pots and bottles, surrounded by the light of a spring day and the comfort of a house well-used, if you are to live. If you’ll be alive, to see Ciri walk out and run to the skies. If you’ll be alive, to see those skies, and hum again, the lies of your life and the songs of your heart. If you will live. Maybe you won’t. You wonder if it would be a shame, to stop it all now. When spring seems to be coming, and you’ve finally found a new land to stop drifting. 

You think back, all these times. Catherine, and the countess, and Geralt, and the songs, and the paths and the lies. If it was indeed a life. Your life. If you should cry. 

But then, your mind has always been your worst enemy. And it’s a thought that flashes, a splatter of cold rain on brittle skin under a summer sun. It’s a slap, a recoil, a curling corpse. 

Your mind thinks.  
It thinks, that for some people, death starts even before they’re done breathing. And that for others, who hold onto it so little, life flies away too soon, when they didn’t realize its magnitude.  
Or so it feels. 

You think you’re in on it, you’ll admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still alive? Shockingly enough? 
> 
> Jokes aside, I have finally found again the time/mindset to work on this, and let me just tell you that all the comments left on this story have been an emotional roller-coaster for me. It seems I can't believe people actually enjoy what I am writing, but here we are. 
> 
> To all of you who have left a comment, I want to say a big thank you, wholehearted and warm. I haven't replied because I'm just THAT shy and I absolutely wouldn't be able to form a coherent sentence, but you're making my day. Every time <3
> 
> As to the story and its development:  
> Will. I. Ever. Stop.This. Bullshit.  
> I swear I wanted this part to be the last. But my mind – it – just – doesn’t seem to care? It’s always sprouting new things to put down. 
> 
> What have I done sweet Jesus what have I done?
> 
> Last time I said I didn’t want to dump a +4K of a chapter on you, dear readers. Well, I still don’t want to. That’s why this is not the last part (ah. ah ah. ah ah ah... will there ever be an end to this???)


	8. Helping hand : part III

“You should-” Geralt starts. But he winces as you flinch, and he shuts his mouth. You hear Yennefer’s magic crackling, out there, in the wild. The house-cat isn’t done scratching her rage out. 

He closes his eyes, gesturing weakly for the garden outside. 

“There is-” he tries again “She is-” 

You feel cold and small suddenly, with that phrase hanging. 

Geralt takes a step back, back from you and back from the doorway he came through. He is hunched, and he doesn’t look at you really, like he’s avoiding your eyes and yourself. Like he doesn’t want what follows. Like he already knows. You blink, your eyes prickling. The water, it has come there too, finally. The tears. It seems he always can dig up some feelings at the bottom of the dried well of your spirit. You blink, because you hate your eyes and what they see. You don't know what he is thinking, but your eyes do what they do best. They notice. And your mind churns with every blink. You see, they see. His sword, still at his back, his hands, clenched at his sides.

And you wonder for a second if he will kill you from behind. 

A coward’s death to end a coward’s life as you walk out, turning your back on him one last time. You think back to the doorway, the outside world. You think about him, waiting, clearly expecting for you to follow through with whatever the deal is, whatever the understanding is. You're lost. And the outside world is waiting. _She_ is waiting. 

And you, you want to live, with an acidic swallow going down your throat, prickling every chord and touching every nerve. You want to live, it's there, the desire, at the tip of your tongue and your twitching fingers.  
And yet. _She_ is out there. Geralt is waiting. 

You should be dead. And soon you might be. 

In the end, it's the uncertainty that makes you do it. The uncertainty, and a dark broadening curiosity at the bottom of your stomach, the need, greedy and hungry, to know, finally. Know what happened. To her. What will happen to you. What Geralt wants to do. 

Curiosity wins out, because survival is a thing, but knowledge is another. And you wouldn’t have been a good spy if you hadn't placed the former in front of the other. 

You think of Ciri, held up inside because they don’t want her out. Yet.  
Because there’s still you, there. You think of Geralt, copped up here, waiting, silent and brooding. Of Yennefer and Triss and the Witchers you couldn't bother to make friends with.  
You think. 

And how cruel it would be to prevent someone, anyone, from going on and living, out of a misplaced envy. Out of a delayed last wish.  
Because you'll finally get what has been coming since then. 

You breathe out, lungs straining at your desire to keep them working. It’s like they know it’s all for nothing. You glance out, at the sunlit grass and the warmth of a midday spring. You see the glinting of metal blades cast aside, far on the path. Half-hidden by the doorway, far away, is a piece of bright cloth. Crimson, and lying there. 

Crimson, like her dress. 

Suddenly, your heart might be empty, but there’s a pull in your guts. Curiosity completely stepping over Survival for her throne, crowned, with the countess last breaths as her jewels and your death to bear on her altar. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter what happens after. If you can at least know what got to her first. 

You think that’s all you need to step out and meet your fate. She was always the one leading you to your death. You've always known you were to die an ugly death, twisted in your own mistakes. But with this, now, it's more than you've ever dreamed of. Because you’ll at least have the satisfaction of seeing her there, first. And by you, that's the finest piece of this last feast of feelings you could have been granted. 

\- - -

Geralt doesn’t move, watching you.

You can sense the swirl of his thoughts, the depth of his pain, with his head turned away and his arms now crossed over his chest, to protect the little chip of trust he has left. You look at him and think you’ve done enough harm for a lifetime, it’s time to take a bow and depart. 

So you take that step, you make yourself walk. You’re done being dragged about like the puppet you were. If you’re allowed that much, you’ll try and face that on your own, no strings to dance on, no songs.

No songs anymore. 

You take a step, and another, your limbs don’t work that well. You think you’ll stumble if anyone stops you. You think you’ll fall and they’ll have to bury you right there, because your mind is empty, your heart is beating loud and clear, and your breath is rattling, only for yourself to hear. Like your soul is already fleeing. 

When you cross the threshold, the light is blinding. But it doesn’t matter because you’ve seen where your steps will lead. You’re done blinking, the tears will dry. They always have. And you’ll soon be done breathing too, so what does it matter. You just keep on walking. 

There is a breath of cold wind, shaking your thin shirt, leaving you with a shiver. But it doesn’t matter. You pass a person, and another. There is just a void, under the small chirping of birds and the sweet murmur of the grass. It’s the ground that calls to you, at last, not the skies. 

You feel their eyes at your back. You know Geralt has followed you outside, silent as a cat. But you’ve known him too long, he doesn’t surprise you anymore. He walks in your steps, a shadow at your back. You can tell. You know him. You can tell. Just like you can tell Yennefer is barely keeping her anger in check, her magic crackling in the air. 

You know them. Your fast burning wrecks. 

You think you'll miss them. 

You keep on walking, unsteady on your feet. There’s not much else they would be expecting. 

When your eyes have dealt away the sunlight, when you finally see it clear, a body distorted and crumbled by the trees, your breath catches. Your stomach lurches. 

You stop. 

Everything. 

It’s too harsh, it’s too real. It’s too soon.  
And you think you’ll crumble. How could you have ever thought you were ready to give it up, give it all.  
Ciri is back there. And your throat closes, because she had planted something, back in your mind that night.  
It could have been your dream for a new life.  
How could you have played yourself so well, once again. 

“She’s dead” Yennefer finally says. 

She says it, like it’s a password. A code. For something bigger, something greater. A new world. A new hope.

Your mind doesn’t know it though, the code. That encryption is lost on it, and you only feel the cold. 

Geralt comes close. And your feet take up walking again, even if it jars your bones. There’s your fate in front of you, and your past is behind you. You did a full rotation, before your axis found its true place again, in the story of their lives. It’s painful, but you’ll go through. And you’ll finally come true. 

\- - - -

It’s...red. There so much red when you get there. Geralt stands at your back, a heavy presence weighting behind, at your spine. Is he the one holding you upright? He just might. 

Just like Catherine did, with her passions and her ideals, pushing you to follow, soaring through the streets and the city, to the world and her dreams. To the sea. 

Just like _her_ , you think, with her jealousy and her anger, dragging you down, tugging on the strings of your past, to force you to go deep and dark and walk her steps towards the edge of madness.  
You might strangle yourself with laughter. Geralt might be the one holding you upright now, with betrayal brittle in his eyes, hurt in the lines of his mouth and on his shoulders the reality of your being, in his life and why. And the consequences for that. 

He might be holding you upright now. But it’s not for long at least, and that’s only because she can’t hold onto you anymore. 

You open your eyes wider, making your soul look on and notice, on the lush grass of the clearing, before the heavy cluster of trees. There are the dark curls, and the red dress, that special hue she claimed would never bear witness to blood, red enough and dark enough and rich enough to hide any spat, any shimmer, any flowing river, if worse came to worse. 

You see. And you want to smirk. Always lying, you think. Because evidently she hadn’t quite tried with that quantity. 

“Good riddance” Lambert mutters from the house.

Good riddance. Is that so, you think. 

You don't acknowledge the sentiment.  
You could, it’s true. 

The Countess had played it close to her chest, she had teased one last time the sleeping den. She had walked that line too surely and too strongly. She had tipped over the edge finally, as it had always been expected. You don’t care how it came to that end, but it’s fitting you think, for her to be killed by one of the monsters she had claimed to master. Because of you. Through you. 

You think you still feel, shuddering over your skin, the manacles of her smirks and her will. 

She had killed, and murdered, and manipulated so many, and taken from so many others. And you, you were in on it. That monster, basking in blood and woes, killed by a Witcher. 

Good riddance. 

You think of her voice, and her smiles, her orders and her lies.  
The pain she’d left behind. 

Good riddance. 

If that’s it.  
If that’s all there is to it.

You wouldn’t be surprised if she had left some things as she died. Her hatred, her envy, her fury. All of it. Her very being. Entwined and woven tightly, into some cast aside things.

You want to breathe, but your lungs are protesting. Because -

(your mind is always one step further, one step forward, and it’s a thought, just a thought, but what if it’s you, the poison she’s left to simmer, and boil, until you can’t take it anymore and flare up, taking down everything and everyone standing by, left behind)

You come to a stop, a few feet away from the mess that is her dress and her flesh. You don’t want to know, but you think it’s her guts peering from underneath her, bubbling close with the warmth of the sun. The birds aren’t chirping, you were wrong before. They’re calling, almost asking for a taste before it’s too late and it festers in the air. 

You don’t feel like walking anymore. You don’t feel like moving. 

She’s dead then. Finally. 

Good riddance. 

Is that it? 

Because you still feel empty. You find yourself lacking.

And you see the body, and the blood and the deeds. And it doesn't make what she did, what you did, any less painful. Any less true, for you. 

You see the body. And it makes you wonder, if Justice is all it’s made up to be. Because she’s dead, and soon you think you’ll be, but the pain hasn’t left, and the gap is still growing. The one she’s created, with her orders, her manners, her desires. The one she's dug always dipper. Between you and the others. Between them all, seeding words and remorse and doubts and illusions. The one you’ve shoveled too, with your songs and your pose. 

The one you’re about to close. 

“It’s over.” Geralt says. 

You don’t react. You wonder why he is saying that. You still take in everything she’s left to be. 

“I’m sorry” he says. 

Your eyes are wide, you realize, your tears have dried at last, you can’t blink, you can’t breathe, you’re just trembling.  
And when his hand comes on your shoulder, softly, carefully, you feel your knees give in. 

Finally.

You don’t think you’re ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALMOST. Almost there. 
> 
> I swear. 
> 
> Promess.  
> Who would have guessed. I had 3 chapters planned at first. 
> 
> And then here comes this monster of words. 
> 
> ps: once again, thank you to each and everyone of you who's left a heartfelt comment on the last chapter. You're slowly and sweetly killing me every time with every single word left.


	9. Rising Up: part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh lord  
> I have no words. 
> 
> I am so ashamed. I genuinely thought I had finished publishing this work...and when I happened on it today, I realized the last two chapters had not actually been published.
> 
> I am so sorry to everyone who has left comments, cheered on this fic, to have left you hanging like this. The work was completely done and... I forgot to publish it. So here goes, the penultimate chapter, have a good read!

Geralt’s hand has come onto your shoulders. 

You’ve fallen. You don’t think you’re done falling. 

You’re kneeling. Your mind is roaring on the void of panic, your breath is crushing your lungs, overwhelming, drowning your spirit, leaving you empty, you think you’re chocking. You don’t see anymore. You’re so far from feeling anything. Your body seems to focus on the utmost basics : pumping blood, wheezing air. Painfully living yet. 

Waiting.   
Always waiting. 

You’re still kneeling, and you don’t understand it.

Where is the relief? Where is the blood-letting?   
When will you be pain-free finally? Of letting down your friends and hurting them, even after their death, even after they’ve cut their ties from you? Why isn’t Geralt getting rid of you? 

You don’t understand it. It turns and turns in your mind and in your guts. But there’s no sense, and it’s chaos and you can’t understand. You don’t understand still, when instead of the cold at your neck you’ve come to expect, it’s Geralt who crashes down by your side, and tugs you into his arms. 

“I’m sorry” he whispers. “I-” his voice catches, he holds you dear. It’s not something you were expecting. Your mind turns on itself, eating your thoughts and your beliefs, thriving on the destruction it’s creating. Where is the sword, where is the blood. Where is your grave, to bury yourself and never get out again. 

“I should have been there-” he tries again “ I should have listened, when you said-” he stops, breathing ragged. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m sorry. I should have listened. I should have asked. I saw it, I felt it, when there was something but I-” 

You would laugh, if you could even think; you can’t remember a time when he has spoken more words in a conversation than you did.

You would laugh, but you can’t even breathe. You’re chocking, now that’s clear. Chocking on air, if that’s not funny. It’s not water this time, like she had tried, but he will end you with less, your Geralt, because he is that good, isn’t that true. It’s not water, it’s air, a mad work of lungs and throats and mouth trying all and nothing at the same time. They were supposed to crash together, to crumble against each other. It doesn’t make sense, that they would keep on going. Your mind is reeling. He has broken you, you think, at the very least. 

He is whispering something, keeps on talking. It’s strange, the lack of sense it makes to your brain. You should be listening though, you don’t think he has ever talked as much to your ears alone. But your mind doesn’t care. It doesn’t understand. It thinks it doesn’t make sense. Geralt’s arms could be crushing you, there could be his blade by your throat, his hands around your soul, making sure you don’t leave before he’s done dealing with it, but you can’t tell, there’s foreign warmth by your side, your skin tingles with fright and your eyes – 

\- they are closed aren’t they.

  
You’ve lost touch. Geralt is still there. His hands by your head. You feel a rumble in his chest, a cry of distress.

Why are you still upright and not down there? 

\- - - -

It was revenge. 

You learned, two days later. After having been snatched away from the clearing, dragged back to the bedroom, under the tears of Ciri, to breathe again and live anew. You don’t remember, it’s all a daze, snaps of colors, movements and that name again and again and again. Jaskier, come on. Jaskier, don’t. 

Jaskier, please. 

All with one voice. 

His. 

It was revenge. 

It was revenge, that left you drifting, lost in a sea of inner turmoils. Fighting, every thought stabbing, with the question of whether or not you should live. What it would mean, to be killed, like you had initially wanted, by Geralt, so many years ago, so many songs and lies back. To be killed now, after everything, after so much time. After all your deeds, and with your past shining clear to his ears. 

It was revenge. 

Now, you’re sitting with your back to the wall of the house, in the grass, the sun burning your skin and the wind flirting in your ears. You can’t really see anything, but at least you can feel something. 

And so it was revenge. That numbed your skin and your tongue. Revenge, that prevents you from talking along. 

Revenge. It wasn’t justice, they had worked for. Like you had initially been led to believe. 

It was revenge. Yennefer says it so, looking at Ciri, whom you can hear, training with her sword and running. Geralt is leading her dancing, teaching her his skills and tricks. Yennefer looks at you too, sitting by her side, your hands lying in your laps. They haven’t played with the air since that day, the hum has left you again, drowned by the torrent of your ego being taught wrong. 

Yennefer keeps talking. 

You don't really care, but the sorceress seems to believe it's necessary for you, to hear, how when she realized she was done for, the Countess had mocked the White wolf and the trust he had shown for her little singer, her little bird. 

Yennefer seems to believe it’s necessary, for you to know how the Countess had spit out your past and your deeds. How, before she was killed, cleanly, too cleanly the sorceress thinks, she looked at Geralt, told your tale and claimed your own self and your spying her greatest music. How she sneered to them that you were dead, and isn’t that a shame, she said, that they can’t hear you say it all, speak it out loud and cold. Be true, once and for, all in front of them. Those you claimed to be your friends, or your allies, or your side. Or your life.

She asked, if it wasn’t a shame, that Geralt couldn’t even get his answers from your own head. 

Yennefer persists and keeps on digging, through the depth of your pain. It’s churning, your guts are rolling with her hits. She says again, how the Countess claimed you were the key to Nilfgaard, following them yet again, even after they had lost trace of all witchers and sorceresses, without even thinking of the kid in between. How you should have been killed first thing, if they had really wanted to win. 

How they would all die, one at a time, because you had said it all, their secrets and their rightness, and their faults. You had talked once. Only once. And that was all Nilfgaard needed. 

So it was revenge, Yennefer says again. Because we know you, bardling. And we know what she did. It was revenge, for everything she’s crafted and the ones who’ve died because of it. For your Geralt, she says, with a smile tainting her voice, it was revenge too. But more personal. 

For you. 

You hear Geralt grunt, as he slips on a wet patch of mud and Ciri manages to hit him on the shoulder. Yennefer snorts. She sees so much more than you, but you can guess he didn’t slip because of his own shortcomings. He was listening. 

He still hasn’t talked to you, after that time. 

It makes you wonder, sitting under those blue skies, if revenge is really about the victims, the ones who’ve bled and now stand there, waiting. 

(your mind wonders too - If you shouldn't have stayed by Catherine, bear her pain with her 'til the end, instead of going and playing the avenging hero, death’s personal call. You wonder, if it wouldn't have made it less difficult for her. Even if it would have been more painful for you. To stay by her side, after all she went through. Instead of leaving her behind, not listening to her distress and her cries...) 

It's sad, you realize. How we always think first of dealing out vengeance, and never about the ones left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I want to tell you again how deeply sorry I am for not having completed it earlier. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to come back to this left-aside work.  
> The last and concluding chapter of this work will be published on the 25th of december (consider this a gift from me to you, I can't stress enough how ashamed I am).


	10. Rising Up: part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go my dears! The last and final words to this whole year-long work. 
> 
> I am very humbled by the fact that you have stuck until the end of it. I hope it won't disappoint and that you'll have enjoyed the ride! I certainly did :D 
> 
> Have a good read!

When Geralt comes to you again, you've taken it upon yourself to see her dead.Completely dead. 

You’ve dug up the grave.  
And now you wait. 

It's strange, the way that lifeless body leaves you with nothing to feel. 

You can't make sense of it though. That decaying thing, rotting and smarting your nostrils under the sun, now that Yennefer has taken off her spell, it's not her. It's not the Countess. You wonder, if she isn't more than that. How are you to realize she's gone if you just have a body to account for? Isn't there more? 

You're sat in front of her makeshift grave. You dug that up yourself.  
You don't know how long it's been, when he comes by you. But it's been long enough that even Lambert has started to complain at your back. About the stench. About the time. 

You don't realize. That she’s gone. That she wasn’t meant to last. You don't think you ever will. It's been so long, and you’re so used to singing. 

"I met her" he growls in the end, standing behind you. 

You look up, eyes squinting in the sun. You're used to singing, but you think you're done talking for the time being. 

"Catherine" Geralt explains, clearing his throat. 

Your breath catches. It's too much and you don't want to know. You stand up and make to go. But you see the others, gathered at the door of the inconspicuous house encased in the stone of the mountain, and you feel Geralt by your side. Your breath is too wild. It's here and now.

"She's the reason I met your cousin." Geralt adds, softly "Well, the Countess told me, about her and him. A few years ago, after you went to the coast. How he was looking for someone to handle her spirit. It's..." he turns to look at the body "she wanted vengeance, your friend. She wanted peace. I didn't understand really, at first, with what the Countess had told me. She haunted him. I thought he had killed her. Or..." he doesn't explain, but there's no need. He's taken your vow to heart, it's almost worth it. He won’t sully her name like she did. " I thought that his explanation, in court, in front of everyone, of her death, of your involvement, it would make her rest. Knowing you weren’t there to be haunted, that she would only go out again if you came back. That your cousin didn’t have anything to do with it. It's always when the haunted share it out that the spirit is appeased. It didn't work, obviously." He looks at you then. " I guess Catherine’s truth wasn't his. Wasn’t theirs."

"What did you do to her?" it's a croak, barely a whisper. But you can't not know. She's suffered so much. The least you can do is carry her story to the end with you. 

"I trapped her in her grave." 

And you have to close your eyes, because that's all she always despised. Being trapped, locked in place by someone else. She could never bear it. That’s why she wanted to keep on living. 

“How long?” 

Geralt is confused by your question. It’s difficult, for you to make words, find meanings again. It’s all rusty and your tongue would be rotten if your body didn’t care enough to keep it in working order. Because you thought you were done using it, done lying. But you push through, those bearings are blocked and it’s pressure, from your mind and your throat, that make it go and turn anew. It’s all for the best. It’s all for a truth. You need to push through. 

“How long ago was that?” Because it’s all part of the past that’s been dragging you down. 

He nods. 

“5 years.” 

You look at the sky. 5 years. You remember rumors of spirits kept enchained, always screeching, always roaming their little grave until they could be avenged. 5 years. Has it been so long, since you and Geralt went on your ways and never looked back, never met again, never even tried? 

Your eyes are stuck on a cloud, passing the sun, and suddenly, the wind which had been refreshing until this, turns cold and scathing. Your mind is stuck on something else. Because of course, whenever Catherine comes in your memories, she isn’t alone, and the Countess is always close. 

“How long have you known the Countess?” Because she’s the one who lead him to that past, she couldn’t leave it behind. She had to take it out and showcase all your wrongs and your twisted actions. 

You hear Geralt’s teeth snap close. It’s painful for you both. But she’s there, at your feet, decaying, infested with worms and soon to be discarded. There isn’t a better time to clean the gash out then now. You would know. She’s a disease that thrives on the deepest pains. Even in death, she’s that dedicated to her feast. 

“8 years ago.” 

And isn’t that a bucket of cold water down your neck. Your lungs have stopped working again, they are that used to getting locked up, fastened, entangled in your mind. And your mind, your stupid mind, it runs fast. Your body can’t follow behind. 

8 years ago, you were still meeting with Geralt, every now and again, between a court and a tavern. For a new song, a new tale. It was on and off, but you were sure, so sure, you had it controlled. That she would never have to step close. To poison your personal bubble. Again. 

Looks like you were wrong. Again. 

There is a hand again on your shoulder, squeezing softly, and you realize you’ve brought your hand to your chest, because breathing is quite necessary if you’re to stay standing. If you want to keep this conservation going. 

“Jaskier. Breathe.” Geralt is saying, by your ears. 

It’s what you’re doing, you want to snap. It’s just not as easy as it might sound. 

“You should-” he starts but cuts himself off. You think Yennefer had a hand in his speech structure. “You can sit...” 

You look at him, disbelief clear in your thinking. Since when does he take the time, to suggest, to express his care. 

It’s strange to hear. But then again, it’s been a long time, since you’ve had an actual conversation. A lot of things have changed. With him. With you. But mostly with him, it seems to you. 

“Explain” you say instead. It’s a rasp, it’s pathetic for a bard to let his voice get so strangled but you’ve got good reasons, you think. 

Geralt nods again, his eyes turned to the body lying in the sun. “I met her 8 years ago. In a tavern, she was passing by. Or so she told me at the time. I don’t really believe it was that much of a chance encounter, with everything that happened after. She was bland, nice. Nothing of notice, too few things to notice, now that I think about it.”

“You never told me” you say. You don’t want to sound accusing, maybe you do, but it seems strange that he would keep that from you. 

“Well. We didn’t really have a chance to talk niceties, when we met again. The mermaids of Loch Mochen.”

Ah. Yes. That. True. You grimace. It wasn’t a pretty sight. And well, it did leave the two of you with too much to vent on for the months after. It makes sense, if the Countess never came up. She couldn’t compare to these ones. At least then. 

Geralt looks back at you. “I met her again, after… that time. More times… it was-” he squeezes your shoulder again, but you know it’s not for you because your lungs have finally understood what they needed to do, if you wanted to hear it all. It’s for him, as if he were feeling for your life inside bones and veins and flesh. “You had left for the coast by then.... I didn’t want to-” he chokes “-impose. After what I had said, it didn’t feel right for me to-” 

And you nod. Because you get it. It was easier to try and forget, instead of think on and forgive, what had been said on the mountain, after the dragon and the anger and the ego stands. 

“I met her, the first few times a chance encounter she claimed. But after some months, I-” his voice wavers, your ears are tingling. It seems important to hear. 

“I needed to see her.” Geralt finally whispers. “She- I know it sounds stupid, but.” He breathes. “She smelt like you.”

You’re still, and you don’t think you could be moving, even if Geralt looks like he would need a helping hand to stay standing. 

“She would tell me about you. I never said much, but she always had a word or two, from you. She always had cases she thought I could handle too. It was always an excuse, an excuse she gave me, to come and see her. To listen to her. And I couldn’t- she smelt like you. Or I guess you smelled like her, even if on you, it was just a fragment of her perfume. She reminded me of you. And I couldn’t forget you. I wouldn’t forget you, I didn’t want to. ”

Your eyes are brightening, you feel it. Because again, it’s your fault if he came close to that monster. You want to apologize, but Geralt isn’t done this time; it feels like he is rushing everything out because it’s burning and it’s dying and it needs to be freed from those clutches. 

“ I needed to hear, how you were, what you did. She kept me updated. You seemed to keep in touch with her. I never wondered how… when you were always moving, never being where you were expected. I guess she followed you.” 

You can’t keep shut now, you have to ask “You never spoke about-” and you gesture at the others, all their world. What she was always looking for. What she had always aimed for.

He shakes his head, once, decisive. “It didn’t have anything to do with her. She did ask. She knew I had told you, a lot. Too much. But I never said anything to her...she tried once her potion on me. The one that makes people speak until they sleep.” 

And your throat parches, because you know that one well enough. She was disappointed you wouldn’t react to it, after a while. Its bitterness sometimes comes up again, when you talk too long, it’s like it has coated your tongue. 

“I didn’t need to tell her it wouldn’t work on witchers. She seemed to know, she said she had wanted to see, try something inconsequential, just to make sure that I – I wouldn’t repeat any of her words out there if worse came to worse.”

That makes you tilt your head, your heart beats red. It’s there, you can feel it, tension rising from your senses. Your instincts. You’ve known her so long, so well. There’s only one good reason she could have given to keep playing nice afterwards with your witcher. 

“Why?” 

“She told me about Catherine, that time.”

Hearing it doesn’t make it easier to deal with. You want to think you would have expected it. You should have become used to it. Her games, her tricks. But she had you dancing until the very end of her turns, and you can’t believe you’ve ever thought she would be done with you.

Your silence is answer enough. Geralt looks down, his hand still on your shoulder, tight. “I – I didn’t want to believe it at first. But she was so...” 

You know. You know how she was. So you say it for him, like all those times in the past, when words would not come for him and you would just butt in. 

“Convincing.” 

He nods. 

“She didn’t make it sound so grim, at first. She was very pained, for you. She took your defense. She blamed Ferrant and the court. I felt angry for Catherine, that she could dismiss her so clearly. And she wasn’t saying everything, I could feel it.” 

“She lied” you say, blankly. Because your emotions are dead for this topic. 

“I knew she lied. I just thought” he closes his eyes “that she was omitting some things that would have made it sound worse. On you. She was so dotting on you...” 

Oh, but she was good. She was good. That has to be true. 

“It had been two years, since we had last spoken, you and I.” Geralt whispers “I felt I needed to know where you came from, truthfully. Because you never said a lot, although you would always talk too much.” 

You wince. it’s how you handled it, always.

“I felt cheated, when she told me. And by then, it had been so long already, I only remembered bits and pieces of you, although I still couldn’t let it go. I thought I needed to know the truth about you. And dealing with Catherine’s haunting, it seemed like a good place to start cutting off your friendship. To deal with everything you had never said. Who you had been, according to her.”

It hurts to hear it said so. But you understand, you know. Because gods you’d tried that too. To stop thinking about him, remembering only the worst of him, burying the good parts, and the good times. 

“After I left Catherine in her grave, I came back to her. Nilfgaard was already rising by then, getting stronger. I knew there were talks of Cintra falling to their clutches, and I was still unsure about the child surprise matter. It weighted on my conscience. And I was angry at your actions. That I had trusted you so much, with so many pieces of vital information. About witchers, about Kaer Morhen. Knowing that you had been there, with the curse, the child… it was so much, too much to have given to someone like you. It needed to be dealt with…”

Your lips thin. It’s understandable. You were expandable by then. 

“That’s when she offered. To look for you. To bring you back to me. To deal with it.” 

Your mind is empty. It’s so deep, it’s unraveling. You think you are finally breaking. 

“I was so angry, and I felt betrayed, as if you had played me like you had played everyone else, and she said she would keep me updated. She would look for you, and she told me we could meet at certain times and places, away from Nilfgaard’s eyes, to make sure you wouldn’t betray my trust and the right side.” Geralt snorts. “I can’t believe I trusted her so much. I- trusted her.” 

You look at him. You know how painful that feels. “ I did too.” You say. Because it’s true. Sometimes she was the only link keeping you chained to this life, fastened around your eyes with her pretty lies. “ She was that good.” 

He shakes his head. “She sent me messages, about Nilfgaard and their men moving in. About you, still nowhere to be seen. About her doubts, on your allegiance…”

“It’s a poison, doubt. It pervades everything after a while” you’ve said that out loud. Geralt looks at you, understanding filling his pupils. 

“It all came to a head with the attack on Kaer Morhen. I wasn’t going there, we knew it would be targeted at some point. We just didn’t expect it to come so soon. She warned me then, too late, but she told me, she believed you could have talked, about Kaer Morhen. Given it up. To Nilfgaard, in exchange for your life. She told me about you being seen following some of their men...” 

“When Yennefer sought me out, and she told me, of the attack, how they had killed the troupes of Nilfgaard, how she had ransacked their base and found you there, barely yourself… I-” he chokes on that. It’s so strange to hear about the other side of that story. 

“By the time I was coming here, I was so worked up on keeping Ciri alive, and on the knowledge that because of me, Kaer Morhen had been attacked... I never told her about Ciri, but she guessed it. She guessed after some times too, where we were going. When she appeared in the city closest to here, I knew there was something she kept from me… I never met with her, there. I never replied to her messages again. Because by then, I had seen you… here. And I needed answers she couldn’t give me. ” 

“And it just didn’t feel right anymore, my rage at your lies. You weren’t what I remembered. But you were not either what I had made up, what she and Ferrant had told me. You just...weren’t.” 

You sit down then, because it’s too much to bear. To hear that even to others, your soul wasn’t there. 

“What happened then? To lead to this?” You hear yourself ask. It's distanced, echoing down your guts, but you need to know, for sure. 

“Yennefer talked to me. Triss too. About your breakdown. About what they saw through that… how you always startled when Yen moved, how you would follow her like a hawk when she came near you. And I didn’t realize, until I saw the Countess again, how alike they were, in their behavior if not in their … Then we had to go out, gather supplies, and a squadron of Nilfgaard found us and... It was too much. I needed to hear you say it. Catherine. Everything. That it wasn’t your fault. Just to make sure, one last time, that I would make the right choice. Make the right decision.” 

“Did you?” It’s mean, you know. But you can’t help but wonder, if it wouldn’t have been easier to just snap all your necks in one swift blow and then deal with Nilfgaard, instead of trudging in that mud and dirt. The blood you had gathered.

Geralt grips your shoulder, shaking you. “Don’t you dare, Jaskier. Don’t you dare.” 

You shrug. 

“What happened? You left, after I told you. You left Ciri behind. Why?” 

“We thought we needed to stop Nilfgaard from snooping around. They had come closer around the house. Yennefer’s magic was good enough to hide us, but we needed to make sure they wouldn’t come nearer. We managed to disperse them for a while, but after some attempts, I- I decided to kill it straight. I asked the Countess to meet me. And she followed. She didn’t really expect to be caught. She thought I still believed her… and I did. For a while. I did. And I stopped trusting you… And that’s the worse I could do. By you.” 

You both look at the corpse. 

"Ferrant never complained about the grave.” Geralt says after a moment “But I think, when it’s quiet again, when we have the time, it would be good, for Catherine.." You don't look at him, because it's too much. The countess, and her, and him. It's too much to deal with. Slowly, you feel his warmth and before you know it he has put his arm around your shoulder, whispering for your ears only "I think she needs her rest. Her peace. And so do you, my friend. "

And the gates to your soul are opened, and if you end up crying your heart out to him and the others and the world, hidden in his arms, it's alright. Because finally, it feels like you found your home. And your place. And it's a weight from your back and a pain in your lungs that lift. 

And you think, about Geralt and Nilfgaard, and the mess that is to come. And you think of Ciri and Yennefer, and Triss and Vezimir, and Lambert, that has started to rant again. About the stench. 

You think about Geralt’s last words to you. How you will find your rest, soon. With him. And them. And you think, maybe out loud, maybe singing, but truer than you've been in a long time. 

"So do you, my friend. So do you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 
> 
> I can't say it enough, because you're here at the bottom of this whole thing and I'm really flustered that you've come all this way and read my piece. 
> 
> I want to apologize again to all of you who have followed since this work started and have had to bear through me being an absolute scatterbrain who completely overlooked the fact that no, unlike what I had believed so hard, I had not in fact finished publishing the work... 
> 
> Thank you again for all the comments and the cheering, it's been amazing, and I hope you enjoyed the work and its ending <3 take care of yourself


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